


Infinite Loop

by kriegersan



Series: Hello world [4]
Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Drinking & Talking, Explicit Sexual Content, Gallows Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mission Fic, Past Child Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slash, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Trust Kink, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-25
Updated: 2015-11-10
Packaged: 2018-04-27 23:52:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 27,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5069746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kriegersan/pseuds/kriegersan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"All I could think was that I didn’t want you to be alone. I didn’t want you to have to do this by yourself."</p><p>(Philanthropy fic. The Tanker Incident.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Null

**Author's Note:**

> This features some more world building, including references to [Gary McGolden](http://metalgear.wikia.com/wiki/Gary_McGolden) and [Nastasha's book](http://metalgear.wikia.com/wiki/In_the_Darkness_of_Shadow_Moses%3A_The_Unofficial_Truth). The timeline for these events is a little screwy in canon, so I improvised.

“So what do you think about this? There’s is some pretty interesting stuff in this book. It’s blowing up all over the internet, the media, making huge waves.”

“Well, I read the abridged version when it came out about a year ago, and it sounded like a bunch of nonsense then. But now I’m not so sure. Attention was brought to the book through an article by Gary McGolden. He’s a known conspiracy theorist, and come on, if I have to hear about rocket fuel and steel beams one more time--”

“I do find the allegations interesting, though, given the recent resignation of former President, George Sears. The timing is a little… well…”

“Now, now, we shouldn’t speculate any further. To you viewers just tuning in, _In the Darkness of Shadow Moses: The Unofficial Truth_ , by Nastasha Romanenko. I encourage everyone and anyone to pick this up and give it a read and come to your own conclusions.”

“I guess my thing is-- Solid Snake. Sounds like a comic book character, like a superhero, am I right? This guy? Pretty incredible.”

“Well, if any of this is actually true.”

“The White House has yet to make an official statement regarding the contents of this book, especially the allegations related to U.S. involvement in the development of a nuclear weapon called Metal Gear REX. As you can see here, the--”

Hal tunes out, around that point, the ancient CRT screen staticky in the next room. It’s the first TV they’ve had in ages, and he puts it on in the background just for some company, even if the news doesn’t do much to calm his anxiety.

Over the past few weeks, Nastasha’s uncensored book has all but flooded the market-- initially, popping up on the deep web, then permeating into P2P and torrent sites, picked up by the mainstream due to the online discussion, finally saturating news channels until it’s reached a fever pitch. The first time he’d heard the words ‘Solid Snake’ uttered on Fox News he’d just about fallen flat on his ass, and every recurrent time he hears those words, it just fades a little more into the background. New information, constantly being processed.

Truth be told, he’s a little more focused on Snake, Dave, the person, rather than the idea represented in the book. He’d read it over a year ago, when Nastasha had been shopping the thing around and Philanthropy had been little more than a pipe dream, and it had all seemed like a fairy tale. He’s aware he’s in the book, and technically it recounts the events accurately, but a book can’t capture the terror of Gray Fox staring him down or the way he felt watching Snake stand over Sniper Wolf’s body, SOCOM in hand, or the sinking feeling in his gut when telling Snake he was going to stay behind or--

Or how any of it felt, really. No one will ever know Dave the way he does, or Snake, or any of it. They’re just characters in a book. Legends. Not people, with names, with feelings.

He sighs, pushes up his glasses, leaning his head back in a stretch. He’s been sniffing around the Pentagon’s network for a few days now, and only making a bit of headway, their network protocols whipcord tight. At least they’ve been getting better funding lately, so they can afford to put together a half-decent server that gives him a little more juice to work with. Even if it makes the tiny spare bedroom designated an ‘office’ hotter than Satan’s balls.

It’s been weird this past month or so. Things had been a little hairy after their last op, and Nastasha’d tipped them off about McGolden-- they’d mutually agreed that it’d be best for Dave to return to Alaska (easier to get through the Canadian borders, a network of rental cars and skeezy motels like beacons lighting the way), solo, to chase him down before someone else did, and for Hal to remain in their current hovel in Seattle, digging for intel and filling out UN paperwork day in and day out. 

He feels a bit like a hermit being alone and essentially trapped inside four walls by himself. He hasn’t been so alone in almost a year now, and he latently recognizes the returning of some old habits-- without Dave there to wrestle him into something resembling a regular schedule, it’s easy to forget to eat and subsist on coffee, to forgo a shower or two because he’s working on a really interesting script, or to dig himself a little hole of misery and angst about his problems. 

Above all, it’s lonely. So lonely. He wonders if Dave is feeling as weird about being alone again as he is. Probably not-- legendary soldier, covert agent and all. He’s probably used to it. Maybe even craves some space.

Not to mention, they haven’t even really had time to actually talk through what happened that night. Duty calling, and all.

Hal’s fingers touch self-consciously at his throat, and he wishes again that the marks hadn’t faded so quickly. At the time, he’d looked at himself in the mirror with one hand covering the bruising on his neck, the other fisted around his cock. It had been the most time he’d spent looking in the mirror, ever. Every night, until the yellow had faded into his usual pale shade.

And now, he can’t help but visualize that moment, the way Dave had looked at him, and in their hellhole of an office, his dick fills out a little just thinking about it.

Hal groans, forces himself to re-focus on the screen, on the compiled code puking errors back at him. So much for genius engineer. He pokes around adding semicolons here and there, checks one of Philanthropy’s various email accounts for any new tips, free hand reaching for his lukewarm coffee, sucked back into his virtual world in mere moments.

He’s so deep he doesn’t hear the knocking until it’s repetitive enough to be a pattern, and Hal freezes for a moment before realizing that he _knows_ the pattern. It’d been one they’d, again, mutually agreed on. 

He quickly looks at the clock, and it’s the right time, if not a little early. Still, he picks up the M9 Dave had forced him to learn to use before they’d separated, holding it like something he doesn’t want to touch as he cautiously pads over to the door.

The door is old and rickety enough it doesn’t even have an eyehole, so he listens for a little longer before the knocking stops, then flips back the three deadbolts they’ve installed, leaving the chain. He opens it slowly while holding the gun just out of sight, peering through the crack. That familiar heady smoke filters in through the gap, and any suspicion flows out of him in an instant.

There, turned away, cigarette in hand, is his partner. His hair’s the wrong colour, too dark, blonde roots, and it’s barely a disguise but Hal can’t help but grin, closing the door to slide back the chain, depositing the gun on the table.

Dave is facing him when he pulls the door wide, and their eyes meet. There’s a pause, before he pulls the last bit of his smoke, drops it to the step and grinds it out with his heel. His lips curl up, and he peers at Hal through the thick fan of his lashes. “Hey.”

“Hey,” parrots Hal, vaguely aware that he’s a little sweaty, and he’s smiling this big stupid grin because he _missed_ that face. He wants to kiss that face. It’s only through superhuman willpower that he doesn’t reach forward and grab him and put his mouth all over him.

Instead, he backs up and lets Dave into the apartment, door swinging shut and triple bolted behind him. He’s aware he’s standing a little too close, and he balls his hands in the sleeves of his sweater to keep himself in check. The duffel bag hits the floor, and Dave is shouldering out of his jacket, throwing it over the back of the shaky chair in the kitchen.

“So, I’m guessing everything went well given the media frenzy and everything. I don’t know if you heard about it but as soon as you told me the book hit that McGolden guy’s hands, everything just exploded, the whole scandal has blown open and--”

“Hal. Give me two fucking seconds to settle before you status report me.” Dave looks at him with a spark of humor in his eye, and Hal, nervous, shuts his mouth. “I just spent the last few weeks scaling fences, driving all the way to fucking Alaska, avoiding authorities and dealing with conspiracy theorist nutjobs. Lose me on the updates, for now. Relax.”

“Ah, sorry. I just figured you’d want--”

A hand settles on his shoulder, and Hal feels warm all over, Dave up close in his personal bubble. “What I want right now is a shower. The rest can wait.”

“Ah.”

Still, he doesn’t really move, and they end up standing in the kitchen for a few moments sort of just looking at each other, Dave’s hand slipping down to his bicep and staying there. Hal feels so self-conscious, and giddy, and weird, and it bubbles out of him before he can stop it.

“I’m really happy you’re here.”

Dave gives him this unreadable look, before asking, “You miss me or something?”

“Yeah,” Hal answers, honestly, unable to stop himself, before completely panicking at his candor. “Ah. I mean…”

“Glad to be back.” He smiles, one of those honest, addictive smiles and Hal soaks it all up, eager and aggressive. “Really, there was a void in my life without all the J-pop. I almost got my hearing back.”

“You’re such an asshole!” Hal ducks away, grinning uncontrollably as he tries to put some space between them, so he doesn’t overstep his bounds.

He’s not at all anticipating Dave throwing an arm around him and tugging him back into a half-hug. He smells like cigarettes and dried sweat, and it’s stifling, he can feel every hard edge of muscle where they’re pressed up together, but it’s not like Hal wants to breathe anyway. “Dave! What--”

“You’re too easy.” His voice, so close in his ear, the low, intimate tone making Hal look away, too self-aware. 

He disentangles himself, and Dave lets him go, still watching him with that weirdly fond look. Hal can’t meet his eyes. He clears his throat, points towards the bathroom. “So… you, uh, shower?”

“Yeah. Think you can handle food? I’m starving.” He’s already pulling off his shirt as he pads off to the bathroom, and Hal is just about certain he might fall over dead as his eyes follow the long lines of his back, the sinuous arch of his spine.

Food is frozen lasagne in the tiny oven that clicks obnoxiously while pre-heating. Hal even has beer for the occasion, sets them on the coffee table before checking the outside security camera feed on his secondary laptop. Setting up a perimeter of hidden cameras had been a little pet project of his, at the suggestion of Dave, and he’s relieved to see it work flawlessly. It’d helped with the paranoia of spending a few weeks alone.

He starts fixing automated processes and making little changes to the UI, and he’s already starting to get back into it when Dave vaults gracefully over the back of the sofa and lands next to him. Hal looks up, pushes his glasses up his nose, and immediately turns back to the screen. Would it kill him to put on a shirt? He’s still drying his hair with the towel draped over his broad shoulders, his sweatpants low on his hips, the band of his briefs visible and Hal has to force himself to focus.

“It’s fucking roasting in here. How can you deal with this?”

“Not all of us double in functionality as personal space heaters. This is cozy.”

“If you’re a middle-aged woman. But anyway. Fill me in,” Dave says, reaching forward to procure his beer from the table. He pops the cap off with his thumb, and Hal tries not to focus on just how strong his hands are. “So it’s hit the media?”

“Yeah. The Times already did a piece on it, the book’s at the number one spot on the bestseller list.” He grabs the dusty remote and turns up the volume on the TV, flicks through a few channels pilfered from their neighbour’s cable service. “Solid Snake is a celebrity. Kind of funny, nobody even knows what you look like, but I think you already have some kind of female fanbase. Heh.”

Dave stares at the TV for a moment, watches the feed roll through. Drinks his beer. “Jesus.”

“It’s all kind of surreal, right? That just-- everybody knows now. About Shadow Moses. The government cover-up. Everything. I mean, whether or not they actually believe it.”

“Hn.”

“At least the truth is out there, I guess. I’m sure this’ll put heat on us like crazy, but this is a good thing.” Hal moves his laptop back to the table, picks up his beer. “I’ve already seen an increase in our funding.”

Dave doesn’t respond, still glaring a hole in the screen, as the news report continues into the specifics of the book. Hal watches, wanting to understand, but he can only imagine what it must feel like to have your secret identity made public knowledge after an entire life existing on the outskirts of society. He, himself, had felt a little strange seeing REX’s blueprints onscreen, the baby pictures of his ill-advised engineering project.

His partner hunches lower in on the couch as the report drones on, puts his feet up on the coffee table like he’s preparing to kick it right at the TV. He wouldn’t blame him.

Hal’s finished his beer when he finally has the courage to ask. “So… what do you think?”

“Well,” Dave says, blandly, pushing his damp hair off his face, “Right now, I think I want to get really drunk.”

“Ah.” He considers for a moment, then stands. “I can help you with that.”

He walks back to the kitchen where it’s even hotter, now smelling vaguely like ground beef and marinara, and bequeaths an unopened bottle of whisky from the cupboard and two mismatched dollar store glasses. He’d bought it a few months back around the one year anniversary of Philanthropy’s creation, but with more work to do, it’d been mostly forgotten, even if he remembered to bring it with them whenever they moved. Dates and times blurred into meaninglessness, the importance of their mission always at the forefront of his mind.

By the time he’s turned around, Dave’s following his progression back to the living room with a curious look. Hal drops the glasses down on the coffee table, unscrews the top of the whisky. “Hal, I didn’t know you had it in you.”

“What, you think I’m just gonna let you drink alone? I did go to college, you know.” He pours. 

Dave snorts, accepts a glass when offered. “Yeah, when you were like _fifteen_.”

“Oh, shut up. Sixteen. Anyway.” He clears his throat, raises his glass. “This is a celebration. I mean, sort of.”

“Celebrating?” 

“What, you mean you don’t think it’s at least a little exciting that there’s so much publicity? Think about what this could do, all of this information in its raw form, given to the public on a silver platter. The fact that it’s drummed up so much media attention, even if the government gave a half-decent story that usually the average American would buy without a second thought, and it’s already almost two years after the fact. I mean even on a technical level, how quickly this was passed around the net and published, wow-- isn’t the modern age of technology fascinating? I mean, not that I didn’t, uh, ‘inspire’ some sites to pick it up, or manipulate the numbers a little but an exposure this big, Dave, this is on the level of Watergate, it might even be bigger and--”

“Hal.”

“Oh, right! Well… we’re celebrating us!” He pauses, face heating. “Uh, I mean, Philanthropy.” 

He offers the glass in hand. Dave gives him one of those looks that makes him feel like he’s being pulled apart under a microscope, before tipping his glass into the edge of Hal’s own with a cheery clink. “To Philanthropy.”

They both drink. It burns going down, warmth blossoming through his belly. Dave reaches for the bottle again.

The next few hours start to blur and fade, they’re tipsy enough to disregard the slightly charred edges of the lasagne, and they finish the rest of the beers in the fridge. It’s fun, weird, sort of like the experiences Hal mostly missed in college, buried in thesis statements and self-loathing. 

Dave gets kind of animated when there’s alcohol in him, handsy, loses the filter of world-weariness that usually pervades every action. Starts asking personal questions, gets further into Hal’s space, and the world is a little fuzzy and warm but everything just feels so _right_.

“So who exactly did you get drunk with in college? Illegally.” He’s draped all over the sofa with his feet prodding into Hal’s thigh, and he’s drunk enough that it’s stopped being so overwhelming that Dave seems to close all the contact between them. He maybe even starts encouraging it a little. “You rebel, Hal.”

“Ah yes, underage drinking. Truly the peak of my depravity,” Hal responds, every word dripping with sarcasm. It comes easily, like all of their banter, and Hal’s never been a people person but Dave seems to knock down every other sword he’s chosen to fall on. “Honestly, you’re gonna think I’m such a huge nerd, well, you probably already do, but one of the guy’s in my comp-sci class used to throw LAN parties and we’d all drink there.”

“LAN party?”

“Ah, it’s like… where everyone gets together to game in one place. We’d all bring our towers and play together. I guess it pretty much equates with a house party, just… more mouth breathing I guess.” 

He scowls, starting to dissect the memory. 

“I was always the youngest one there, and man, they used to get so pissed off at me for always having the highest stats, the most gold and the best gear. I mean, I don’t think they ever figured it out, but come on, like it was _that hard_ to write a script that let me farm the shit out of every resource available in-game while I was in class. Hah. _Ultima_ was so early, it was easy back then and I wasn’t even that good at programming yet and… ah, I’m rambling now, I’ll stop.”

Dave prods him in the leg with his toe, and Hal realizes he’s been mostly staring off into space ranting, glass in hand, for the last few moments. He starts, pushing his glasses back up his nose. “Sorry.”

“You didn’t have to stop. I was enjoying hearing all about how you cheated your classmates out of imaginary money.”

“It wasn’t cheating! Dave! If the code is flawed, and the tools are there, you’d be an idiot not to, ah, _capitalize_ on it. It’s not my fault they weren’t as resourceful as I was.”

“Mhm. Sounds exactly like what a cheater would say. Your villain card is en route.”

Hal huffs. “Ah yes. There is no one alive as morally bankrupt as I.” After a moment he sits there, pondering, chin in hand. “But… I guess it was kind of… bad, huh.”

Dave sits up next to him, shuffles over so they’re shoulder to shoulder. Hal looks away. “Only you would agonize about the ethics of stealing fake money ten years after the fact. I’m just fucking with you, Hal.”

“And I’m just fucking with _you_ ,” Hal shoots back, turning on him with a sudden grin, “I can’t believe you actually fell for that. Hah! Oh wow.”

“You suck,” is what Dave comes back with, and Hal laughs again because the naked look on his face is literally priceless. “How did you of all people get to be an actually half-decent liar?”

“Guess I had a lot of practice when I was ruthlessly conning all of my peers out of their hard-earned gold,” he snarks. The actual reason is a far darker road that he doesn’t want to go down, not right now, so he forces the quick flash of images into the back of his mind. Still, it’s worth it to finally pull one over on Dave, who mercilessly exploits his own gullible nature more often than not. A softer kind of revenge. “Honestly, though, they kicked me out of their clan for being _too good_. So it was like… karma.”

“Whatever you say.”

“What!” He spreads his hands in surrender. “Oh, God, you’re not worried I’m gonna lie to _you_ or something?” He pauses, eyes going wide. “Dave, I was just messing around, I swear I would never--”

Dave snorts, jostles him with a shoulder where they’re pressed up together. “Easy, Hal, your checkered criminal past is safe with me. Besides, if you heard about half the idiotic shit I’ve ever done, you’d probably laugh right in my face. Or run screaming. Maybe both.”

Instantly, Hal is so curious he might actually die if he doesn’t find out. Sometimes it’s hard to picture Dave as anything less than a stone serious, fully-adult, decorated soldier, but an offered view into that reality is to tempting to ignore. So, he presses. “Well, now you have to tell me something.”

“Do I have to?” He rocks forward with a smirk, snatching his smokes off the table, before wandering over to the window in a mostly straight line. He cracks it, lights up, and Hal follows him over with the whisky bottle, significantly lighter now, not wanting too much space between them. 

“Well you don’t _have_ to.” He props himself up against the wall facing Dave on an angle, then takes a swig out of the bottle. He chokes a bit, covering his mouth, forcing himself to swallow. It burns. “But I’d, ah... like it if you did. Doesn’t have to be a big thing. Just… a story.”

Dave looks at him, considering, then takes another drag on his cigarette. He runs a hand through his hair, then sighs. “Why the fuck not.”

Hal leans in, listens, eager.

“Okay. So. When I first joined up with FOXHOUND, I’d already been to Iraq, so I wasn’t all that green. Didn’t stop me from being young, stupid and cocky, though. Anyway, first day on base, a bunch of the senior officers told the new recruits to go to supply for chemlight batteries and a box of grid squares.”

“Chemlight batteries?”

He smirks. “They don’t actually exist. Neither do grid squares. They were just doing it to fuck with us and make us look like idiots in front of Big Bo-- the CO.”

“Ah.” 

He doesn’t mention the slip of the tongue.

“Anyway, all of these privates are going around base looking for fucking chemlight batteries and grid squares like total assholes, getting redirected elsewhere and given these bullshit tasks, and I just stayed put. Refused.”

“I can’t imagine that went over very well,” Hal replies, with a breathless laugh.

“You would be correct. Master didn’t like my insubordination too much. We both knew the task was bullshit, but it wasn’t about the task, it was about following orders. And I failed. So he wiped the floor with my ass in front of our CO and just about everyone else to knock me down a few pegs. Almost broke my goddamn arm. And I thought I was so smart. Had to work a hundred times as hard after that to impress him. Still not sure if I ever really did.” 

“Master?”

Dave’s eyes crease, and he takes a long pull on his cigarette, smoke filtering out through his nose. “Master Miller. He was responsible for a good part of my special-ops training.”

“I see.”

“Also responsible for this scar here. Put me through a wall.” A healed, knotted scar on his right forearm. “This one too. Knife training.” 

He slides a finger over a white line running astride his collarbone. Hal reaches out to touch, follows the path of Dave’s hand with his fingertips. His skin is very warm and dry. He realizes only after a moment that he’s staring at the scar with such intense fascination, and he forces his gaze to Dave’s face, where he’s regarding him with a piercing look.

Hal lets his hand droop down, knuckles brushing against Dave’s bare chest as it falls. “That must’ve hurt,” he murmurs, desperately wanting to explore and catalogue every single mark on that powerful body.

“It does,” Dave replies, eyes never leaving his face. 

Hal doesn’t understand, for a moment, until it dawns on him that Miller is dead. Had been killed just prior to Shadow Moses, according to Nastasha’s book.

Basically anyone Dave had ever relied on or cared about is dead, gone or had betrayed him. Hal is the only one left.

He’s staring off into space again, agonizing, when the bottle leaves his hand, pulling his attention back to his partner. Dave drinks, Hal watching the movement of his throat as he swallows, how his thumb brushes his lips when he finishes. He puts out the cigarette with his fingertips and flicks it out the window, and there’s this silence permeating the air again and then Hal looks everywhere but him.

“What?” asks Dave, amused.

“Ah… I just really wish you’d put on a shirt.”

Dave raises his free hand to the swell of his bicep, squeezes, then lets it travel over his pec and down his sternum. Hal tries not to watch, not to notice the dusting of chest hair, the tight peaks of his nipples, and mostly fails. “Why?”

“N-no reason. Nevermind. Say, you want to watch a movie or something?” Hal flees back to the sofa, uncoordinated and loose. He trips over the arm, falls flat on his face on the seat.

Dave is close behind him, grabbing his arm to help him upright. “Hal?”

He boosts his laptop off the table, saves it from tipping off onto the floor. He’s a lot more drunk than he’d felt over by the window. Maybe it’s the nerves. “I was thinking a classic, like _Star Wars_ or something?”

Luckily, Dave concedes, drops the issue, follows the trail that Hal is leaving for him. “Not really my thing.”

“What, you don’t like _Star Wars_?” 

“Never seen it.”

“Dave! What! How?” Hal pulls up his movie library and starts typing. “I can’t believe you, it’s a cultural artifact! It defined a generation.”

“It’s not like I don’t know what happens in it. It just never appealed to me much.”

It occurs to him, only then, that the reason Dave doesn’t like the trilogy much is probably that it hits a little close to home. Luke, I am your father, and all that. Still. How could he not see _Star Wars_? It’s pretty much required viewing. But still, he’s not as cruel to put Dave through that purely for his own sake.

He opens his mouth up to suggest something else, when Dave crashes down next to him, almost knocking his laptop off where it’s perched on his legs, bottle landing on the table with a thud. “Okay. If it matters to you that much.”

“We don’t have to watch it. It was just--”

“Hal. Relax.” He jerks his chin forward, crosses his arms. “It’s important to you. I want to understand why you like it.”

Hal’s mouth goes a little dry. 

He starts up _A New Hope_ without a word, sets the laptop on the table, settles back. Dave puts his arm around the back of the sofa behind him. He attempts not to notice, even if ever so slowly, he leans into his partner’s side, the skin of his bare chest so warm against the back of Hal’s arm.

The movie starts, and Hal starts commentating, because it’s what he does best when he’s nervous. He pulls his knees up, and it’s easy to pretend that he’s not entirely pressed up against Dave, who mostly hums in acknowledgement as he overshares his knowledge about a movie he knows back and forth four times over.

“Ah, this scene. I love this scene. The pacing is just tremendous. Y’know, it was a debate for years whether Han or Greedo shot first. I’ve fought with enough idiots in forums that think Greedo shot first, but you can tell that it’s Han because… ah…”

He’s aware he’s borderline ranting, and Dave’s stopped replying to him for the last few minutes and he’s really not sure if he’s maybe bored or falling asleep. Curious, he turns to the side to peer at his partner’s face. 

Dave’s staring back at him, watching him, intense, predatory, and Hal immediately shuts up. He waits for a moment, follows the line of Dave’s eyes, where he’s entirely focused on Hal’s mouth and... oh.

Hal doesn’t react. Doesn’t know what to do. 

Ever so slowly, Dave leans into him, until their foreheads are touching, breath mingling. Hal closes his eyes as Dave’s nose nudges against his own, and he can feel his blood thundering in his ears. He smells like booze and cigarettes, underneath, that pure, masculine scent that Hal can’t handle so close to him, not like this, not when--

Hal moves before his brain can kick in and tell him no. Closes the space between them, their lips meeting for the first time, Dave’s warm and dry against his because it’s so chaste, so fleeting, and he pulls away before the moment even has time to begin. He’s aware what this means, what this could do to them, and he just wants him so badly. He can’t trust himself with this.

He’s retreated before Dave even has time to react, and suddenly he’s staring back at that searing expression, horrified at himself for pushing those boundaries. “Oh God. I’m sorr--”

The words are devoured out of his mouth, Dave surging forward to bridge the gap between them, his fingers carding through and fisting the hair at the base of Hal’s skull, holding him in place, possessive. His other hand slides up his neck, tugs at the collar of his shirt, urging him closer until Hal’s facing him, on his knees, and Hal lets him, lets his tongue fuck into his mouth, breathless and scorching. It’s dominating, filthy, yet so _pure_ , a culmination of so much tension between them all in one single kiss and Hal lets him take and take until he feels hollowed out, raw. 

Dave is just trying to figure him out as their tongues twine, and Hal whines, low in his throat, finally lets his hands touch, gaining purchase on Dave’s tight shoulders, massaging, sliding up into his thick hair to tug him closer still. Their teeth click, and Hal adjusts, tilts his head, parts his mouth wider, Dave taking that as an invitation to deepen the kiss, sucking his lower lip into his mouth, biting down with the barest of pressure.

His dick is already rock hard, and they’ve been coming up on this for months now, pushing this tension between them away, down, and as much as he wants this and as much as Dave is pulling up long-dormant feelings from him that he’s been dying to feel, he _can’t_ , because this is too much, and this is a bad idea, and Dave makes this low, hungry noise that he answers by crawling into his lap, straddling him. 

He’s higher up now, and Dave has to tilt his head back against the sofa, and Hal pulls his hair, grinds his hips down because he needs to relieve that pressure, even just a little. Finally, he breaks through the haze of arousal, feels the hard line of Dave’s cock underneath his ass, and it’s just too real, but he can’t stop kissing him, even if they’re both breathing too hard, slow stuttering kisses punctuated with nips and licks, until Dave is holding his jaw, prying him open, taking again and Hal lets it happen until he can’t anymore.

Finally, he forces himself to turn away, mouth wet, because this is a bad idea, and they can’t just do this, can’t let this happen, because there’s too much resting on his shoulders, on the shoulders of Philanthropy, too much for Hal and Dave to be carried away by something as pedantic as sexual tension. It’s just sexual tension. It’s not--

Still, Dave noses at his cheek, presses curiously gentle kisses to his jaw, and Hal clenches his eyes shut, panting, lets his hips roll just one more time, that delicious contact sending heat up his spine. His fingers tense where they’re braced on Dave’s neck, before Hal forces himself to stop.

He waits.

Dave catches up to him, nuzzles his face into the hollow of Hal’s throat. They breathe there, together, tension building again, the heat between them too oppressive to bear. 

“Fuck.” 

Hal doesn’t respond, can’t help but smile a little to himself at that punched-out word, blush rising up his chest and neck. Pride swells in his chest, because he did that to him. He didn’t know he could evoke that reaction out of someone, especially not Dave.

Dave sits back, hands sliding down to Hal’s hips, fingers slotting into his belt loops. He pulls him down, grinding his hips up to meet him. That pressure for one hot second, until Dave noisily exhales, looks up at him with glassy eyes and slick lips. 

“We need to talk about this,” he says, although he doesn’t sound too convinced, hands squeezing and groping at Hal’s ass, sliding down to cup the underside of his thighs. “Fuck. Hal.”

“Y-yeah,” Hal responds. “Ah. We should talk about this.”

He’s not really ready for Dave to stop touching him, doesn’t want to move, but they can’t just let this happen. 

Dave presses one last kiss against his pulse. It’s not enough.

They pull apart with some difficulty. Hal retreats, slips off of Dave’s strong thighs, back onto his hands to scramble upright. Puts a bit of space between them, because he knows if they’re still touching, he really won’t be able to control himself. He rights his glasses on his nose, views the world through smudges and refracted light. 

Dave leans back, legs spread, hands covering his face. He makes a quiet, frustrated noise, fingers sliding up into his hair, until he drapes them over the back of the sofa again, crossing his ankle over his knee. A deep breath. Then, “Okay. So. Catch me up.”

“Well. We just made out.”

His eyes crinkle with amusement. “I’m aware, Hal. I meant on the movie.” 

Oh. Hal turns back to where the movie’s been playing the entire time, oblivious to their actions, to just how much has changed between them, all over again. In the part of his brain that isn’t numbed out by alcohol or Dave’s kisses, he recognizes that this is a conversation for when they aren’t both horny and drinking. For when talking wouldn’t automatically lead to touching, to more, even if it’s all that he wants right now, maybe all that Dave wants, too.

He slouches down into the cushions, aching to be touched again, forcing himself to speak. They need a distraction. “Uh, well, Alderaan was destroyed by Tarkin, on order of the Death Star’s commanding officer. And--”

They barely watch the rest of the movie, inches between them, both entirely aware of the tension. By the time the credits are rolling, their knees are touching again, and it’s the only contact they can afford because Hal’s not too sure what’s about to happen now, the night stretching long and inviting before them.

He reaches forward and closes his laptop, a little too rough to be natural, stays forward, hands on his knees. The world is a little spinny, and the bottle’s a lot more empty, and they only have one bed in this place, the spare room currently overtaken by an array of machinery. 

“So…”

“You take it,” says Dave, reading his mind.

Hal runs a finger over the logo on the lid, watches the movement. “Or we could share.”

Dave retrieves the mostly empty pack of smokes from the table. Pulls one out and flips it in his fingers. “Probably not a good idea.”

“Probably not.” Hal sets his palm down on his laptop, warm to the touch. “But--”

“I know. Me too.”

“Ah.” He wants so badly to be careless enough to just reach out, to ignore the truth, but Hal refuses to be that person anymore. “I’ll just--”

“Yeah.”

He tilts forward onto his feet, catching himself on the table before he falls. Hal picks up his laptop, clutching it to his chest like a shield. He suddenly feels awkward, not really sure what to say aside from, ‘Come with me,’ which they’ve already established is a terrible idea. And yet, the words form on his tongue.

Dave taps the cigarette on the table, Hal watching his fingers. “We’ll talk about it in the morning.”

“Um. Yeah. Night.”

“Goodnight.”

He can’t bring himself to close the bedroom door behind him, as he stands in the frame. Against his better judgment, he turns back to face Dave, who’s still regarding him from the sofa, teasing the cigarette in his fingers, bringing it up to place it between his lips. The action’s not lost on Hal, eyes pinpointing to the way his mouth shapes around the cigarette, the shine of his lips, the hint of tongue.

“Hal,” he says, out of the side of his mouth, “You really need to close that door before I change my mind.” 

“Y-yeah.” He forces a hissed out breath between his teeth, clutches his laptop tighter to his chest. “Okay. Fuck. Okay, night.”

The door clicks shut behind him and he slumps back against it, head thudding back on the wood as he sighs. His mind starts racing, and he’s so tempted to just go back out there, cover Dave’s body on the sofa with his own, the meeting of their hips and mouths would be so very welcome.

Still. Hal behaves himself, because he’s a man of science, understands probability, understands logic. Dave is right. They need to talk about this. The odds of this ruining them is not insignificant. Even if his cock is hard and heavy between his legs, and he wants more than anything just to kiss him again. Just one kiss. It would be enough.

The laptop finds purchase on the side table, the stem of his glasses pinned underneath, and he mostly collapses into the bed, face-down, kicking off his pants with some difficulty. He didn’t even bother to turn on the lights, crawling under the covers, pressing his face into the pillow to bite down, because he wants to fuck so badly, his hips rocking down to press his cock into the mattress to relieve a bit of the pressure.

Sleep comes. His dreams are kind, producing images of him fucking Dave, or being fucked by Dave, Dave’s head between his thighs, fingers disappearing under his balls, mouth wet and red around his cock. Waking up next to him. Slow kisses, deep and searching.

Hal feels more rested than he has in weeks.

Still, the morning brings a headache and a dry mouth, and he’s not quite brave enough to exit the bedroom, even if he has to piss something awful. Sober, now, his chest feels tight, because he’s gone and leapt over boundaries, knocked right through them, regardless of the consequences. His eager, stupid heart, just when he was ready to loosen the chain. 

He’s a little horrified over the prospect of a talk, because he’s never been great about talking about his feelings, or whatever the hell transpired between them the previous night. He doesn’t know what Dave is going to say to him, because even though Dave had helped him instigate, he might be the only person Hal knows that’s usually more closed off than himself.

He slides on his glasses, picks up his laptop, opens it, in need of a creature comfort before the inevitable anxiety attack. He starts looking at the inbox that receives anonymous tips, like he does every morning, because they’ve been pouring in with more frequency now than ever before.

Hal’s hand pauses over the trackpad as he comes across a new submission. No. _No_. He swallows down the wave of nausea that threatens as his brain struggles to make sense of what his eyes are taking in, the memories being dragged back up from the screaming depths of him. Could it be? He knows that name. No one else should.

E.E.

A name. Two vowels. All it takes to change everything all over again.


	2. Void

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Tanker, and everything else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter there are references to suicide, past sexual abuse, canon typical violence, shoddily explained hacking techniques and a boat load of angst. 
> 
> Also a blink and ya miss it nod to MGSV's retroactive canon.

It takes him far longer than it should to work up the courage to peek his head out of the bedroom. Perhaps, longer than it’d taken him to rationalize himself into a pit of self-loathing, a pit with direction, tunneling down and down. 

He has his laptop opened, balanced in the palm of one hand as he types, taking it to the bathroom with him even though he’s aware Dave’s eyes are following him around the house, are still on him when he exits again, flicking the light off behind him. 

He doesn’t look up from the screen as he beelines to the office, sets the computer down on his desk as he starts reaching for ethernet cables. Dave’s standing at the door, shoulder jammed up against the frame, and thank fuck he’s wearing a shirt this time, because Hal probably couldn’t do this if he weren’t.

“Everything okay?” Dave asks, in this neutral tone. 

Hal pauses, a tangle of cables in his hands, and he forces himself to swallow down everything, because he can’t let this be a distraction. He can’t afford it. There’s too much he could ruin from this.

“Y-yeah, everything’s fine.” He rips the cords apart, starts twining one in his hand, pulling the other to jack into his secondary laptop. 

Dave crosses his arms, watching. Hal keeps busy. Doesn’t make eye contact.

“Hal.”

“Look,” Hal says, finally turning his gaze up from the myriad of computer equipment, “Last night. It-- it wasn’t… I can’t… ah, what I mean to say is--”

He lets the words die out on his tongue, because Dave’s face is a lot less closed off than he anticipated, and he can’t look into his eyes like that and feed him this bullshit. So, he turns back to the screen. 

“I mean, it’s just-- that this means too much, it's too important. I can’t risk it. I can’t risk Philanthropy. I’m sorry.” 

He refuses to break everything again, just for himself, just to be needed. He knows, given an escape, he’s weak enough to take it every time.

“I understand,” replies Dave, with a note of resignation in his voice. 

Hal opens his network configuration, starts up a few terminal sessions. Opens a web browser. He’s already starting to sweat from the heat of the room, and his head is pounding, and he can’t look at his partner. Still, Dave doesn’t leave, and he can feel the weight of his gaze on his shoulders.

“Hal… you wanna talk about it?” Dave, pressing, and Hal can’t talk about it, because Dave wouldn’t look at him the same way if he did. 

He shakes his head, pushes his glasses up when they slide down. “I kinda have work to do.”

“Work?”

“I’m gonna hack into the Pentagon.”

Dave waits, an eternity passing in the moment. Knocks his knuckles against the door frame, pushing away with a sigh. “Okay.” 

He retreats.

Hal works.

* * *

It doesn’t take him all that long to build the framework of his command center, the first step in his process of creating a mass of zombie computers to control at a distance. Takes him longer, still, as he gets into writing the nasty little malware that’s hopefully going to open a backdoor into the Pentagon’s most secure files, all for him.

He drowns out the rest of the world with house music and anime, can’t listen to Dave working out in the next room, can’t listen to the thoughts in his own head that aren’t C++ and algorithms. He just keeps seeing E.E.’s face, his father’s face every time he closes his eyes, and he forces himself out of it, head in his hands, because he needs answers, and every line of code gets him closer to her.

He gets stuck, eventually, the code won’t compile, won’t parse, and he’s pretty sure his keyboard’s about to throw the white flag, because it’s bearing the brunt of his frustration. He sits back in his rigid computer chair, exhales noisily. Fuck it. He needs coffee. Badly enough that he’s willing to risk facing Dave again.

Dave, who isn’t in the apartment. 

There’s this moment of total, utter panic that bubbles up in Hal’s chest. Dave just fucking left. Because of-- no. Not because of that. It didn’t really mean anything. He wouldn’t.

It abates soon after when he finds the shorthand, coded note on the counter, even if the sick feeling lingers in his gut. He’s not even sure why. Gone for a run, then. They’re both running, really, as Hal picks up the coffee canister, pushes the fear out of his head, pushes everything deeper down.

He’s a few hours back into defining parameters when he feels Dave’s presence again, finds him in the doorway, freshly showered, observing. He looks up over his coffee mug, waves him over, because they have to get past this personal awkwardness, they have to work, even if he can barely stand having him so close.

“Take a look.”

Dave hangs over his shoulder, leans down to see the screen. “What am I looking at?”

“It’s called a botnet. Or the beginnings of one,” he starts, flipping through GUIs to display the breadth of his work so far, “It’s all tied into a LAMP stack server-- it’s… uh, basically, a command-and-control station, so that I can use this computer to infect one of the Pentagon’s, a ‘zombie’, if you will, and use that zombie to infect others, and so on and so forth.”

“And you can do all this without them noticing?” Dave asks, eyes narrowing, attempting to understand.

Hal nods, enters parameters. “Yeah. I send a malware package that looks like it came from someone internal. The end-user just needs to click the email, and the package will perform a quiet install-- they won’t notice, unless they have a virus protector, which the Pentagon does of course, but I’ve already written something to crypt it and my malware is all new code, so it’s a moot point, really. I’m setting up the package to keylog, take screenshots, save files, emails, you name it. Anything the end-user has access to is ours.”

“Hm.”

“So then it’s just a waiting game,” says Hal, his fingers working away at the keyboard, “My bots do their work, and they show me the holes in the network. Then, I can gain manual entry to the higher-ups and access to the classified files.”

“You really think government officials are gonna fall for an email hack?” 

Hal rolls his eyes. “You’d be surprised at how easy it is. People get used to routine. They get careless. Stimulus, response, repetition. I’ve been monitoring their unclassified systems for a few days now. See, every morning, meeting invites are sent out-- to both users on the classified VLAN and the unclassified, less-secure VLAN. So, if I send out a mail that looks like one of those invites, and hide my program in the metadata, they have no reason to suspect it’s anything unusual. They just have to open it and the malware instantly installs.”

“I see.” 

“Social engineering is really the key to total network infiltration. Humans make mistakes far more often than machines. It’s the easiest point of access, probability wise.” He shrugs, opens another window.

“How long will it take?”

“Well, that’s the thing about a botnet-- it’s slower than a zero-day attack, sure, but my intention isn’t to bring down their network or compromise any of their data. They’ll never know I’m in. So, it could take a day or so for my zombie army to build up, but once I’ve hit the right user, preferably someone with access to the protected databases, it should be only a few hours to pull the data we need.”

Dave nods, like he understands, even if Hal knows that computers aren’t exactly his area of expertise. 

There’s a lingering silence, and Hal’s very aware of Dave’s presence behind him, and he’s starting to get anxious because he’s wondering if he’s going to question him, again, about last night. Maybe ask why Hal had changed his mind. Force an answer out of him he isn’t prepared to give.

Then, there’s a hand on his shoulder, a squeeze, and Dave says, “I’ll leave you to it.” He exits without another word, leaving the door open, and Hal eases out the breath he’d been holding.

Dave gets it. Dave understands. Doesn’t need for Hal to explain himself. At least, not yet. 

Hal works.

* * *

He wakes up disoriented, on the edge of a nightmare, and he pushes himself away from the desk with a groan. His glasses are crooked, bent from the awkward way he’d been sleeping on his face, and he’s pretty sure there are keyboard impressions in his cheek. He forces himself to seal away the remnants of his dream, the memories, the crystal clear image of E.E.’s shattered face when he told her he had to leave. Bottles them up where they belong.

He sighs, looks at the screen, notes the progress and the files that have already been stored. He’ll need to swap out one of his external hard drives soon. But his little army has been making good progress, he’s satisfied, and nobody’s even noticed the infiltration. He’d gained access to the security camera system a few hours back, and the IT team isn’t even the slightest bit suspicious, judging by the relaxed positions and the lead admin’s interest in his cellphone. 

His stomach growls, and he notes the time. He’s been at it for a whole day. It’s already morning. Oh. 

Rubbing the back of his neck, Hal pokes his head out, finds Dave smoking cigarettes by the kitchen window, the early light of summer bringing out the blond in his hair. He meets Hal’s gaze as he pads into the kitchen, goes straight for the coffee pot.

“It lives,” Dave offers, dryly, and Hal shoots him a dirty look. “And here I was beginning to think the chair had absorbed you.”

“Well, partially. The coffee was singing its siren song, and the chair had to admit defeat and release me.” He takes the first sip, black and endless, and the hit of bitterness makes him wince. “Ah. That’s better.”

“You’ve been holed up in there for an entire day. You should eat something.” He takes another drag, turns away to blow smoke out the window. 

Hal shakes his head. “I need to get back into it-- need to swap out the hard drives, and I should be deep into their network enough that I can--”

“I get it. But--” 

“I promise I’ll eat. I will. In a bit.” 

Hal takes his coffee cup and flees before Dave can respond.

He’s starting to go through protected files and email accounts when a plate lands on the desk next to him, and Dave’s standing there with an unlit cigarette in his mouth, and a look that says he means business. Hal looks down.

“It’s a sandwich.”

“Well, at least we know your observational skills haven’t been affected by your fusion into the chair.”

Hal stares at it. “You made me a sandwich.”

“Yeah. You need to eat, or you’ll work yourself into the ground, and your bots will go sentient and blow up the Pentagon or something. Then we’ll really all be fucked.” 

Hal snorts. “Dave… that’s not how it works at all.”

“Whatever,” he replies, flippant, leaving the room, “A shower wouldn’t kill you either.”

“But your nagging might,” he says under his breath, and he knows he’s being passive aggressive, but he needs to work, needs to find the answers. 

It doesn’t bother Hal. Really, it doesn’t. And besides, having Dave act all… _like that_ isn’t helping with the guilt, because maybe he’s worried, or maybe he’s just trying to bribe the truth out of him with sandwiches, or maybe he just needs to make sure Hal doesn’t kill himself through neglect, because they need to work together despite the martyr complex. It all just makes him feel even worse, so he shoves his glasses up on his nose, and keeps going.

He eventually caves and forces himself to eat, even if his stomach protests the entire time. He realizes a little while after that he didn’t even say thank you, just acted like a dick to try to get Dave away from him, because he’s so goddamn weak and easily tempted when he’s near. He’ll do better. He’ll _be_ better. He won’t repeat his mistakes again.

Morning stretches into afternoon, into the evening, and Hal doesn’t leave his self-erected prison. He finally gets into the dungeons of the Pentagon’s network when it’s dark outside, and he can afford to do a little manual intervention. He cracks his knuckles, rolls his neck, gets ready for some serious digging.

He hits a lot of walls. Blazes past some more. There’s a lot of money being moved around from what he can tell, but he just keeps coming up on the same thing. ‘The Patriots’. Whatever that means. He files it away for later reference.

Eventually he discovers something promising. Intel from higher-ups in the Marines. He hits another wall, needs another password into an email server, so he starts running a cracker and sits back and waits. 

And waits. And waits.

“Huh,” he mumbles to himself, touching his mouth as he concentrates, “Must be getting into the good stuff. Shit.”

He leans back, exhaling noisily, realizing that there’s someone beside him, watching. Dave, of course, with a fresh cup of coffee that he sets down next to Hal’s mouse. This time, he at least manages a, “Thanks.”

“Making progress?”

“I think so, yeah. Just waiting for this to finish.” He gestures to the screen, with a defeated sigh. “The password from hell, I guess.” He slides his fingers behind his glasses, rubs his eyes.

“Hal,” Dave starts, leaning his hip against the desk. “You should take a break.”

“Probably,” he says, rubbing at the back of his neck. “But I can’t.” He’s so stiff from sitting for so long, but there’s still more to do. If he leaves it now, lets the weakness take over, he could run the risk of detection, or miss his access point for any truly relevant data. 

He presses down on the muscle, winces at the tension he finds there. He definitely needs to lay down, or stand, or something other than sit in this godawful chair. But he doesn’t deserve to relax. Too much is resting on this. 

The pain must show on his face, and he’s only a little surprised when his hand is knocked away, replaced by Dave’s, his thumb pushing into the knot at the base of his skull. He can’t help but groan, because it feels good, and he lets his chin drop to his chest. 

“So what have you found so far,” Dave asks, sidling along the back of the chair to set his other hand on the opposite shoulder. “Walk me through it.”

Hal struggles to focus as his partner’s fingers knead into his sore muscles, using just the right amount of pressure. The touch should be unwelcome, should be stopped, considering his less than graceful shutdown of their… whatever that was. Whatever it could’ve been. He knows it’s sending mixed messages, but he craves that touch so badly.

It’s just Dave, after all, and his neck hurts, so it’s just a simple favor, giving him something he needs, and he forces himself not to think about it. Desperately hopes it doesn’t make him hard, even if he feels his cock twitch. He’s grateful he’s sitting under a desk.

“Mm,” he murmurs, after a moment, refocusing on the screen, “I think it might be a new type of Metal Gear.”

Dave stops. “Jesus.”

“Yeah. I know. Doesn’t look like another REX knock-off. From what I can gather so far, it’s being developed under Marines jurisdiction.”

“The Marines?” His hands start moving again, even if he’s listening, gently nudging Hal to lean to the left as his thumb slides up his neck. He opens to it, lets his head rest in Dave’s opposite palm, biting the inside of his cheek to suppress the noise dying to come out from the careful attention. “So aquatic then?”

“Ah-- y-yeah, looks like it. I’m not sure what the specifics are yet, but once I get through this, I should have some more information. It looks like they’re transporting it somewhere.”

“This can’t be good.” Dave works his fingers down into Hal’s trapezius muscle, presses, makes his toes curl in response. He lets his eyes flutter shut, just for a moment, enjoying the gradual release, the relaxing of his stiff muscles. Dave’s hands around his neck. “What do you think?”

He peers through slitted eyes, and the cracker’s picked out half of the password. Good. Progress. Dave starts in on the other side of his neck, and he leans away, letting his partner bear the weight in the opposite hand. He doesn’t speak for a moment, just breathing, allowing himself this, before continuing. 

“I think it’s only logical. REX and its derivatives have already saturated the current market, internationally, and the tech is already almost two years outdated. Not to mention the basis for those copies was only a prototype. It’s not a surprise that there would be a new model in development to combat it.”

“Do you think it’s capable of a nuclear strike? Like REX was?”

“I haven’t determined yet. Not enough data. But--” He cuts off, hissing through his teeth as Dave finds a sore spot along his vertebrae, leaning forward to give him more room to work. His thumbs dip below the collar of his t-shirt, and he shivers, before forcing himself to continue, “But I would assume that it is. It’s an arms race. Someone has to win.”

“Even if it means everyone else loses,” says Dave, with a degree of grim understanding. 

Hal opens his eyes, steels his resolve. “Not if we don’t let them.”

The cracker finishes running. Access granted.

He starts clicking, starts reading, tunneled in as Dave’s hands stop moving on his shoulders, his fingers resting agains the bare skin at his collar. Nothing exists outside of the information he’s steadily ingesting, and the sudden adrenaline starts his heart pounding in his chest. 

Hal turns back to his partner, is met with an inquisitive look.

“I hope you like New York.”

* * *

Hal wakes up with a start, jerking upright where he’s crammed into the backseat of their shitty little Honda, the floor crammed with weapons and computer equipment, the opposite side of the seat with duffel bags. He groans, moving the maps and spreadsheets off of his chest where they’d lingered during his failed attempt at sleeping. 

More nightmares. They come at every turn, his dad’s lifeless face staring back at him with empty eyes. E.E. pleading with him, begging him not to leave her and Julie all alone. He’s given up on trying to make them stop.

“Shit,” he mumbles, blinking away the remnants of his hazy dream. He looks out the window. Dark outside, no street lights in sight.

Dave’s watching him in the rearview mirror. “Hey.”

“Where are we?” he asks, righting his glasses on his face. “Is it my turn to drive yet?”

“Not yet. We just crossed into North Dakota. You should try to sleep some more.”

Hal rolls his eyes, clambers over the center console to tumble through the gap into the passenger seat, Dave grabbing his ankle to make sure he doesn’t kick him in the face. He squirms around until he’s something resembling seated upright, shoving his hair back off his face. 

“That was graceful.”

“Oh, shut up. Can we stop somewhere soon?”

“Yeah.”

‘Somewhere’ turns out to be a dingy gas station on the highway, the faded sign like a beacon on the highway, but it’s open 24 hours and has coffee so Hal can’t complain. 

The cashier doesn’t look up from her phone as they breeze through the door, and Hal beelines to the coffee station and finds himself the biggest fuck-off cup he can find. He has to add cream and sugar because the flavor makes him imagine what licking asphalt would taste like, but it’s caffeine, at the very least. He doesn’t want to fall asleep again.

He’s about to wander back to the til, pauses as he passes by the magazine rack. He picks up a computer science magazine, the front page jumping out at him, flips through the pages. 

“VR? Hm.” 

Of course Dave is right next to him, shoulder to shoulder, fingers comically slotted full of pre-made sandwiches, protein bars and water. He leans in for a closer look. 

“Ah, yeah. Caught my eye, I guess.” 

He lets the magazine hang in his hand as he follows Dave over to the cashier, who regards them with a flat expression as she scans their items. Hal goes off into his own little world for a moment, because it probably wouldn’t be that hard to build his own VR server, it could be useful, the specs aren’t really that difficult, and he’s only shaken out of it when Dave claims two packs of smokes, and he can’t help but groan.

Dave eyes him while the cashier finishes the transaction, bags up their purchases. Continues looking at him as they head back to the car, even if Hal’s trying to burn a hole through the pavement ahead of him.

“What?”

“I really wish you’d stop smoking.” He injects a laugh to try to keep it from sounding too passive-aggressive, but he winces at how insincere it comes out. He knows he’s taking pot-shots to deal with his own frustration.

“We can’t always have what we want, Hal.” 

Hal opens his mouth to respond, but he has no idea what to say to that. So he doesn’t say a fucking word. He’s not sure what would come out of his mouth if he did. Probably something he’d regret. 

Dave lights up, leans against the car, crossing his ankles in front of him. The bag of sandwiches sits atop the car, slowly wilting as a water bottle tips onto its side, and Hal doesn’t really _get_ metaphors, but looking at it makes him feel some type of way. 

He’s such a fucking tool.

“Besides,” Dave continues, pulling Hal out of the swirling depths of his mind, “You never complained about it before. Didn’t know it bothered you so much.”

“It doesn’t.” He breathes loudly through his nose. “Well. It does. If my lungs give out by the time I hit thirty, I blame you.” He puts his hand to his forehead, closes his eyes. “But still. I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m just-- sorry, I’m overtired. And acting like a jackass.” 

Dave flicks the ash off his cigarette, takes another pull. “You’re a little hard to read right now.”

“I know. I-- sorry.”

He looks down at the ground, coffee dangling listlessly in his hand. Dave smokes quietly, thoughtfully, washed out in the flickering light of the overhead sign. It’s a warm summer night, and they have hours of driving ahead of them. A mission that needs careful planning. And Hal can’t seem to look at his face.

“Can I ask you something,” Dave asks, in this low, guarded tone, and Hal feels the dread start again. Sparks of something else intercut that feeling, but he can’t place it, can’t think about it.

He’s terrified, but he brings himself to nod, lifts the coffee to his lips so he has something to hide behind. His glasses usually make an adequate shield against the world, but Dave has this uncanny ability to see right through him.

Dave’s shoulders shift, and he rebalances his weight to the other hip, slides the cigarette between his lips. He seems uncharacteristically uncomfortable, but focused, staring straight ahead. Hal observes, tries not to read too much into it, into the creasing of his brow or the sober weight of his gaze.

“Did I…” 

His words die off, and Hal picks up the thread, carries it right along. 

“No. It-- it’s not you.” 

A pause.

“Okay.”

He doesn’t seem all that satisfied with the answer, but Hal doesn’t let him continue, snatching the bag from the hood of the car, strafing up along the door. “I’ll drive for awhile?” 

Dave doesn’t answer for a moment, then turns away. “Sure.” Casts his cigarette to the ground with a little too much force, rounding to the passenger side of the car.

A few hours pass in silence. Hal puts himself on autopilot and goes straight into his head, where there’s plenty of useful information to be sorted, to be distracted by, ideas to stretch out and evaluate. Awake, he can put his dirty history in a box, where he can ignore its existence, and the coffee gets him stimulated enough that he’s no longer afraid of sleep catching up to him.

Dave smokes a few cigarettes in quick succession, bored, picks up Hal’s magazine, tilting it forward to catch the light from the dashboard. Makes displeased noises, as he usually does when he has something to say, but wants Hal to lead into the conversation.

The same Hal, who wants to talk, but doesn’t want to talk about _that_ , takes the bait as he usually does.

“Say, have you ever done VR training? I was thinking I could set up a server. I mean, if everything goes well and New York turns out to be a little more permanent. A proper setup would take more equipment than what we have, I’d probably need a better graphics card, maybe a solid state drive, and--”

“Don’t think it’d do me any good.”

Hal scowls. “Why’s that? VR tech has really come a long way in a couple of years. You could probably simulate a mission quite accurately, with the right parameters.” He shrugs, leans forward onto the wheel, hands on ten and two.

“I’m sure it could.”

“But…”

“You ever heard of the Kerplunk experiment?”

“Like the kid’s game? I played it once or twice, I guess. That’s kind of a weird thing to bring up.”

Dave chuckles, and this warmth spreads through Hal’s chest, up his neck. He tries not to notice it. “No, not the game. It was a study done in 1907. These scientists put some rats in a maze, made them run to the same location for food, do it over and over until it was like a reflex for them to run. Kinaesthetic. Muscle memory.”

“And so for you, VR is like being a rat in a maze? Is that what you’re going for? Because I could probably change the graphical interface and--”

“Let me finish, Hal.”

“Ah, sorry.” He grips the wheel, focuses on the road.

“So eventually,” Dave continues, leaning back in his seat, “The rats would be completely conditioned to run. They wouldn’t react to outside stimulus, didn’t pay attention to the scientists or anything else, just fucking ran straight to the reward. So, when they shortened the maze with another wall, the rats would hit it head on, at full speed. Hence...”

“Ah. ‘Kerplunk’. I hope it didn’t hurt them too bad.” 

“Of course you’d be concerned about the welfare of lab rats from 1907.”

“A little compassion never hurt anyone,” says Hal, mouth a crooked line, “So what are you getting at?”

“If you take a rookie, someone with no experience in the field, make him shoot at a bullseye target, he’ll shoot the fucking target. Maybe even hit center. If you put that same rookie in front of a living, breathing human, and tell him to shoot, he probably won’t pull the trigger. He’ll see a person in front of him, someone with a family, with feelings. Not a target, not something to shoot. Stimulus is wrong, doesn’t excite his nervous system in the same way.” 

Dave levers his chin down, looks out into the night with dark, burning eyes. 

“Say that rookie shoots something that looks like an actual person in VR. It’s shaped like a person, moves like a person, sounds like one, is for all intensive purposes, to him, a person. Does it a hundred times. It hurts when they shoot at him, simulated pain, he gets angry. He wants to kill the target. He’s never really afraid for his life because he knows it’s all fake. You put him in front of a living, breathing person, the same visual representation of the stimulus he’s been conditioned to shoot, you can bet your ass he’ll shoot when he’s told.”

Hal hums, looks to his partner. “So… VR breeds indiscriminate, psychopathic killers?”

“It’s like the rat hitting the wall. He shoots the person because he’s been conditioned to shoot a ‘person’, his body reacts ahead of his brain, without having the experience or the understanding of what it means to take the life of another. He doesn’t have the ability to properly assess the situation or to determine the consequences of his actions prior to committing them.”

He peers across, and Hal catches his eyes for a moment, before turning back to the road. 

“The perfect VR soldier. Doesn’t think, just does as he’s trained.” He smiles, but there’s no humor there, and he pulls another cigarette from the carton just to spin in his fingertips. “It never occurs to him that, sometimes, the right option is to hold fire, to ask questions first. VR turns killing into a game.”

“And I guess when you play a game, when you pay for the disc, you’re not paying with the intention not to shoot at anything that moves.” 

Dave gestures with the cigarette, raises it to his mouth. “Exactly.” 

“Now that you say it, I think the standard VR programs the military use actually even have a points system.” Hal’s eyebrows crease with realization. “Huh. So it rewards the behavior, activates the pleasure centers of the brain. He won’t associate shooting with the death of another.”

“Not until he actually has to watch someone bleed out on the ground.” 

“Well, that’s pretty grim.” 

“It’s how it is, Hal. Life or death. The last thing the military wants is a soldier with an individual conscience, with his own moral compass. Someone who’d ask questions. Someone who would hesitate to take the shot, who’d endanger the mission because he sees a person instead of an enemy to kill.”

A niggling thought gets into Hal’s head, comes out of his mouth before he can stop it. “Did... you hesitate? The first time.”

Dave flicks his lighter, leans into the flame, the tip of the cigarette red as blood. Plumes of smoke rise, a haze of grey, the acrid scent of tobacco permeating the air and Hal holds his breath. He wants to know, even if he’s not sure how prepared he is for the answer.

“No. It was me or him. I picked me.”

“But you have hesitated, then?”

Dave doesn’t speak for a moment. Hal wonders if he should’ve just kept his damn mouth shut, because they’re going into some pretty dark places. This always happens to them. But still, he’s a scientist at heart, starving for knowledge, for understanding. Moreover, it’s Dave, a fascinating puzzle of a man, and he just needs to know.

“There’s a reason they don’t encourage personal feelings in war. You never know when someone’s going to end up on the wrong side of your gun.”

Personal feelings. It had to be...

“Ah,” responds Hal, not wanting to pry, but so curious, taking sidelong glances at Dave. He isn’t quite closed off, looks contemplative, maybe a little distant. Like the memories are welling up, like it so often happens to Hal. Dave doesn’t let them consume him, is stronger than him, turning to meet his gaze.

Feelings are a weakness. Something to be exploited. Hal recognizes that this is probably what Dave was running from, before Shadow Moses. He wonders if it’s any different for him, now. If those charged looks mean what he thinks they might, doesn’t want to acknowledge. If he would hesitate if--

“You asked me... two years ago. If love could bloom on the battlefield. I gave you my honest answer.” Any time. Any place. He takes another drag, smoke leaking through his parted lips. “No amount of conditioning can kill something that powerful. It can break a man.” 

Like it had broken him, once.

“Do you think it was worth it?” Hal asks. He can’t even bring himself to regret asking.

“I don’t think there’s anything worth more in this world.”

His cigarette burns down to the filter. Hal keeps his eyes on the road.

* * *

It takes him more than a few moments to realize the ringing in his ears is actually the codec, too focused on the finicky refinements he’s been making to the modified M9, last minute preparations. He’s honestly starting to get a little nervous about this op, even if he’s trying not to let it show. Still hasn’t told Dave about E.E., doesn’t even know how he would go about it at this point, without instilling some serious doubt.

Hal slides his fingers behind his ear, accepts the call. 

“Mei Ling. Hey, is the--”

“Do you know how difficult it was for me to find a boat for you this time of year with that kind of short notice!? You owe me, mister. It’s waiting for you in the harbor where you asked. Did you take care of--”

“Everything’s ready. We’re as prepared as we’re ever gonna be, now.” 

“And you have the--”

“Yeah.” He looks down at the little sheet he’d printed out, full of Mei Ling’s idioms he can’t really make heads or tails of. But it’s a sweet gesture. “Thanks again for that. I know you’re busy. I’m sure it’ll help Snake stay motivated.”

“I wish I could be there in person to help you two out.”

“You’ll be with us in spirit, Mei Ling.” Or in idiom, really. 

“Of course,” she replies, fondly, “And for you, Otacon, a quote from Lao Tzu before we part; ‘Do the difficult things while they are easy, and do the great things while they are small. A journey of a thousand miles must begin with a single step.’ Be safe.”

She disconnects before he can respond.

He feels this rush of emotion rise up to overtake him, but he can’t let it happen now. He rapidly blinks the moisture away from his eyes, focuses his attention back on the adjustments to the M9. He needs to get his head back into it, they don’t have much time left.

Since they’d gotten into New York earlier in the week, it’d been nothing but nonstop working, under the table arrangements, cars and multiple seedy apartments paid for in cash, pouring themselves over maps and data, working themselves into dust. Hal hasn’t been able to sleep properly for days now, tripped up on specifics and memories, on the stress he feels from omitting the truth from Dave, who doesn’t question him, trusts him to do this even if he doesn’t deserve it.

Dave, well, Snake, now, bandanna tied securely at the back of his head, in the sneaking suit, who approaches him with an appraising look. Hal slips the game face on, steps back from the table, gives Snake room to take one last look at the map while he finishes doing up the harnesses he can’t reach around his back.

“Can you remind me the tactical advantages of outfitting this thing with a goddamn corset?” Snake complains, twisting to look over his shoulder, as Otacon tightens the lacing with a tug.

His face heats a little, because it had been something of a personal aesthetic touch, maybe, just a little bit. “The pressure helps protect and contain your organs, Snake, for maximum performance. Do we have to go over this again?”

“Hrm. Just giving you a hard time.”

Otacon certainly doesn’t let his eyes dip down, because the suit is especially good at containing certain parts of anatomy. So maybe he’d made things a little tighter than the old sneaking suit had been. A hard time, indeed.

He steps back, looks at his finished work, as Snake finishes connecting the clasp on one of the elbow pads. His face is grim, determined. They have a lot of work to do. 

“Ready?” asks Otacon. He picks the M9 up from the table, checks the safety the way Snake had taught him, then hands it to his partner grip-side first. Snake holsters it, picks up the extra magazines, slotting them into the carriers on his chest harness.

“So you’ll be--”

“On the boat, supporting you via codec.”

“Got it.”

“When we’ve got the pictures, you can disembark the _Discovery_ and swim out to meet me at the recovery point.” He smiles, in a way that he hopes is reassuring, “Lucky for us it’s summer. The water shouldn’t be too cold. That suit doesn’t have the poly-thermal tech your old one had.”

“You seem pretty confident about this.” There’s this degree of suspicion underlying in his voice, and Otacon looks away, reaches for the nearest thing which happens to be the stealth camo. 

He passes it to his partner, their fingers touching for the barest of moments. Their eyes meet, and Snake is looking for answers, searching for that determination in Otacon, and maybe finds it there. The tension in his face recedes, at least. 

“I am, Snake. We need those pictures.”

“You can leave it to me.” 

He extends his open hand out, and Otacon slaps his palm into it, squeezes hard once. Snake grins roguishly, reaches up to grasp his shoulder with the other hand, before turning on his heel towards the door. He reaches for the rain covering to conceal the sneaking suit, looks back over his shoulder in attention as Otacon speaks.

“Contact me via codec when you get to the sneak point. I’ll be waiting.”

He lingers at the door for a second too long, like he wants to say something. Instead, nods, turns away.

The door shuts quietly behind him. Otacon steels his nerves, and starts counting to a hundred in his head. A thousand miles to go.

* * *

He’s already panicking when the codec shorts out, throat raw from screaming his partner’s name. Goes to full-tilt terrified when the sky explodes into a furious ball of flame, smoke belching from the gaping shell of the tanker. RAY launches ahead of the maelstrom, tossing violent shadows across the water, before plunging into the depths, out of sight.

The boat rocks uneasily beneath him, as he struggles to react, flinging his laptop into the waterproof shell, stored under the seat. He throws himself at the throttle, pulling the watercraft out of its slumber, the engine squealing to life.

Otacon has no idea what he’s going to do, but the tanker is sinking, and Ocelot has RAY, and _this is all his fault_ , and Snake is somewhere out in that dark, endless water, and the codec’s not connecting to his frequency and he can’t--

He shakes his head, grits his teeth, forces himself to shut those thoughts down, push them out of his head. Focuses, this is what Snake would tell him to do, _Hal, focus_ , and he guns the engine, because he has to get there before the news choppers start circling in like vultures, before this can become even more of a disaster than it already is.

The water gets choppy as he gains on the wreckage, and he has to maneuver around the submerging metal columns. He starts scanning the waves for any signs of Snake, tries to locate the last known area on the radar, sees the bodies floating past him. The gauzy headlights of the boat are too weak to see much, but the lights beneath the water, sinking deeper, they guide his path, as he desperately looks over the bow.

This horrible memory, pulling his father’s body out of the water, E.E. shrieking in his arms, it just bubbles up before he can stop it. He makes a weak noise, before he shoves it down, banishes it away because he _can’t do this right now_ , can’t let the fear take over. The second he does it’s game over, and he can’t let Snake die, can’t let Dave die like this.

Oh, God, he can’t let Dave die like this. All because of him.

The tanker’s displacing air rapidly now, and he feels the boat underneath him shift and pull. Fuck. He eases in on the throttle, tries to steer away, overwhelmed as he keeps searching and _there_ \--

Snake. He’s not moving, in the water, face-down, and Otacon feels this gut-twisting terror rachet up in his chest as he cranks the wheel over to him. He stops the motor, moves to the back of the boat, grabbing the guard rail as he desperately reaches for him. His fingers struggle under the harnesses at his thigh, his chest, and Otacon digs his heels into the side paneling and _pulls_ , dragging the dead weight of his partner out from the water. 

He falls back, Snake landing hard on top of him, unmoving, and Otacon worms his way out from under his body, shoves him onto his back. 

There’s blood leaking down from his hairline, a six inch gash across his chest. A bullet hole in his thigh, steadily oozing blood. Otacon’s fingers scrabble at his throat, he has a pulse, thready and uneven, and he leans down to listen, but he’s not breathing.

His father’s lifeless face and E.E. is screaming and--

Otacon shakes his head, furiously rejects the memories, because he won’t let Dave die like this, and he knows CPR now, and he isn’t just some helpless kid anymore. He can protect him.

He doesn’t think, just acts, palm flat over Snake’s forehead, tilting his chin up. He leans down, claims his mouth, and it’s all wrong, it shouldn’t be like this, breathing in twice. Sits back, laces his fingers together, sets them in the center of his chest and begins compressions. Thirty times. Two inches in.

He still isn’t breathing. Otacon feels the sweat start to bead at his temples, tilts his chin back for two more breaths, thirty more, puts his back into it. “Fuck. _Fuck_.” 

He keeps going. He doesn’t stop, even if his arms are burning from the effort, if he feels something in Snake’s chest crack as he throws his weight into the movements, thirty times, two more breaths.

He’s panting when he leans down, Snake’s chin cupped in his hand as he exhales into his mouth, and all of a sudden there’s seawater and bile spat back between his lips, and Snake shoots upright beneath him, coughing and puking and Otacon feels stinging tears at his eyes as he tips his partner onto his side to expel the rest of the water, because they _don’t have time for this_. The tanker is going to drag them right down with it if Otacon doesn’t fucking act fast.

But he can’t move, just kneels there, holding his partner in his lap with shaking hands as he pulls in laboured breaths. His eyes open, but they aren’t focusing. Snake turns up to look at Otacon, meets his eyes for one fleeting moment, then drops his head back down.

“Just breathe,” Otacon says. He isn’t sure which one of them he’s talking to. “Breathe. I’ve got you.”

There’s a sickening metallic groan that reverberates from the under the water as the tanker continues to capsize, an expulsion of air. The boat lurches hard, throwing Otacon forward. He catches himself on one of the seats, forces himself to stand, even if it means leaving Snake lying on the deck behind him, firing himself back to the wheel. He has to get them out of here.

It isn’t easy to maneuver around the wreckage with the sheer amount of force trying to pull them under, but Otacon manages, and this weird calm starts to pull over him as he realizes they’re actually going to make it out of this. He’s actually doing this. 

He hears helicopters overhead, turns to look up and over his shoulder. Then down, at the movement, finds Snake in a low crouch next to him, mostly lucid, just trying to hang onto consciousness, but they’re together, and they can _do this_.

Closer to shore, now, and Otacon spots her. The woman-- Olga-- draped over a crate, floating aimlessly at the mercy of the sea. No father to save her, now, and Otacon is turning the wheel before he can help himself. 

Snake doesn’t ask any questions, or maybe isn’t aware enough to. He holds the wheel steady for him, tries to keep his eyes open, while Otacon moves to the front of the boat and reaches over the edge for the woman. He hooks his fingers under her armpits and tugs her aboard, boots hitting the floor with a thud. 

She’s breathing, but unconscious, and she really does look like a fallen angel. That silverspun hair. It reminds him of someone he can’t place, an echo of a memory long forgotten.

“ _Otacon_.”

Snake’s wrecked voice behind him. He lets her down gently to the deck, rounding back to the wheel. There’s not enough time.

They make it back to the shore as the searchlights begin beaming down into the water behind them, and Otacon tucks the boat keys into Olga’s fatigues, leaves her lying there on the deck. He feels a little guilty leaving her alone like that, but he can’t bring her to a hospital, can’t risk it. He boosts Snake out onto the rocks, arm over his shoulder with his laptop case in his free hand, bearing most of his weight.

Snake stumbles, and he catches him, grabs his hand and pulls it tighter around him. They have a car not far from here. They just have to keep moving forward. One foot in front of another. A single step.

* * *

A backup safehouse in the middle of a New York on full-alert, crawling with military and police, is hardly safe at all. He’s doubly sure that every route out of the surrounding area is on full lock-down, checkpoints. Inescapable. They need an exit strategy, fast.

But that doesn’t matter right now. Snake is in no condition to go anywhere, hitting the ground as soon as the door is shut behind him, clinging to the last vestiges of his consciousness. Otacon leans down, hoists him over to the single shitty mattress in the middle of the carpet, where he can let his partner down and start assessing some of his injuries.

He starts undoing harnesses first, pulls them off and sets them to the side, goes to work on the lacing and strapping next. The boots come off, the elbow and knee pads. He removes the top of the suit with some careful maneuvering, teases it away from the cut on his chest, and as he’s undoing his pants there’s this weird thought that bubbles up, that this isn’t how he pictured getting Dave naked at all, and he sort of laughs to himself nervously, even if he feels like dying, as he peels them down his legs, the fabric sticking to the bloody hole through the meat in the center of his thigh.

The bandanna is the last to go, as Hal slides his index fingers gently beneath at Snake’s temples, easing it off of him so as not to disturb the injury there. He sets it off to the side, and there’s just Dave there now, vulnerable, bruised and bloody, completely naked save for the thin underwear designed for the suit. 

Hal picks up the first aid kit off the table with shaking hands. Luckily the gunshot wound is a through and through, missed any major arteries. He’s by no means a professional, but manages to clean and dress it, along with stitching the knife wound in his chest. His hands quiver the entire time, so it’s not perfect, but he has more work to do. All of these injuries are just physical proof of him omitting the truth from Dave and him getting burned because of it. Ocelot had set a trap for him and he’d fallen into it without a hint of doubt, throwing his partner into the line of fire because of his inability to see past his own selfish, childish need to ease his guilt.

He’s so fucking naive.

That sinking feeling starts to crawl up, to coax him back into its familiar depths, aches for him to truly shut down. He wrenches his eyes shut, feels his partner’s slick blood on his fingertips, tears threatening. Hal sniffs, steels himself, and the world comes back into view through foggy lenses, teardrops beading on the glass as he looks down. 

Dave is peering back up at him through slitted eyes, still disoriented, pupils dilated. Underneath, he looks furious, and Hal turns his attention to the head wound, brushing back his hair to take a closer look.

“We’re at the safe house. Do you remember what happened?” Hal asks, finally, pulling more saline and alcohol wipes out of the kit.

He vaguely grunts. “Ocelot. Or… Liquid or whatever the fuck.” He breaks off into a pained coughing fit, Hal hanging onto his shoulder and hip, because the last thing he needs to do right now is fix ripped stitches. Dave falls back on the bed, groaning, eyes clenched shut, the muscle in his jaw pulsing. 

Hal resumes disinfecting, trying desperately to focus on the task at hand. “Just try to stay still, okay? This’ll go a lot faster.”

“He got away.”

He buckles in on himself at that, like he’s been speared through the gut. “I know.” 

Dave shuts his eyes. Hal works.

After he’s reasonably assured Dave isn’t going to bleed out on him, cocooned in a dusty blanket, he drags his laptop over to the mattress. Hal sets himself up alongside his partner’s prone form, not wanting to stray too far, then leeches onto a neighbour’s wi-fi signal, starts uploading the pictures to the net. 

The blurry CYPHER photo of Snake has already hit the news, he quickly discovers, and no amount of RAY photos are going to overcome the media frenzy around a war hero turned monster. They need to get the hell out of dodge, fast. There’s no way they can stay in New York with this amount of heat on them.

Hal’s halfway into sussing out an escape plan when it finally happens. When he’s too hollowed out, too exhausted to kill the memories anymore.

His head drops into his hands, and he presses down on his ears, drowns the world around him out. His breathing quickens, and he starts to shake, muscles spasming from the sheer amount of stress. He has no idea what he’s fucking doing, he almost killed his partner, got him labeled a _terrorist_ because no matter how far he runs, how much he tries to forget, he’ll never be able to escape his haunted past.

The tears come, then, really come, until he’s shaking with heaving sobs, still trying to fight them back because there’s still more work to do. But he’s weak. Pathetic. Can’t stop the shaking, or the emptied out feeling inside of him, another person he’s let down, another person he’s hurt.

He’s not expecting the strong arms that encircle him, the weight against his back, Dave’s bandaged forehead resting carefully in the juncture of his neck and shoulder. For some reason it just makes him weep harder and he doesn’t even know why, but his hand comes to grip Dave’s forearm of its own volition. He hides his face, turns away, doesn’t want to be seen.

The tears finally die down into weary gasps, and Hal slides his glasses off his nose, wipes his eyes. He feels pathetic. Dave’s fingers brush tears from his cheeks, and he steals glances, then, notes the concern there in the set of his brows, the questions he’s waiting to ask in the slant of his mouth. He can’t meet Dave's eyes, alert now, determined.

“Hal.”

“I know.”

He stares at his hands, guilt and shame driving up inside of him like vicious scythes, reaping and hacking until all that exists in him is a void. A horrible noise leaves his throat, and Dave holds him tighter. 

Hal forces himself to look at David’s face, into his eyes, so clear now, so full of resolve. He won’t repeat his mistakes. He won’t run from the truth any longer.

“I have to tell you something.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We get to the fun stuff next time. Thanks for sticking with me guys. Kudos/review if you enjoyed! :)


	3. Absolute

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Recovery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mind the rating, for this chapter. 
> 
> Trigger warning for discussion of sexual abuse of a minor. Also a great deal of Metal Gear logic and semi-vague hand waving, a good helping of hurt/comfort, discussion of canon events, and sweet, sweet man kisses.

“Okay.”

It’s strange. Hal feels calm, focused, even if he knows what he’s preparing to say could destroy the entire foundation of their relationship. Dave waits, focused, as Hal moves, turning to face him, even if he won’t look up from his hands.

He opens his mouth to speak, but the words don’t come. Clenches his eyes shut. 

“You know you don’t have to tell me anything. If it’s…” Dave’s eyes narrow, but he doesn’t push, reaches for his partner’s hand and grasps it reassuringly. “You don’t owe me an explanation, Hal.”

“I do,” he replies, turning his wrist, palm up, fingers curling around Dave’s. “I don’t know how to tell you. It’s why I didn’t say anything-- I just...”

He looks up, finally meets Dave’s eyes, so clear and patient. 

“I’ve never told anyone about this.”

A moment, and then Dave nods, squeezes his hand.

He doesn’t know where to start. He’s never had to articulate any of this, just left it locked up in his head for all these years, memories pushing at the walls of his skull, daydreams licking at the backs of his eyes. The truth never sleeps inside of him.

“My father,” he starts, and even just those words bring up this surge of guilt that he can’t divorce from his voice, “was always very distant. He wasn’t around much when I was growing up. He built rockets for NASA, and then worked for the CIA. He was brilliant-- always asking questions, always creating. 

“But I just felt… like I had done something to wrong him. He would never even really look at me. I could never figure out why.”

He cants his head to the side, in thought, finally letting the memories permeate the air, leak through the cracks where he’s nailed and boarded them up for so long. 

“No matter what I did I could never get him to just-- acknowledge me. He would leave for months at a time, then come back like nothing happened. I know he was working on earlier versions of Metal Gears. I wanted to be just like him.

“And luckily, I’m an Emmerich. We have an aptitude for one thing. So when I started getting involved in robotics, engineering, it was like everything I did, well…”

“Wasn’t good enough?” Dave supplies, quietly, after Hal’s let the silence hang too long.

He rubs his mouth with a thumb. “No. It’s not that. I think maybe it bothered him. Because I _was_ good. He would never say anything when I showed him my designs. Like he pretended it wasn’t happening. All I ever wanted was for him to tell me he was proud of me.”

The admission makes him curl in, and he chokes out a sob, Dave’s hand sliding up his arm, his shoulder, curving against the line of his neck. “Hal.”

“I felt like I was invisible.” He sniffs, looks back down at his hands. “I tried so fucking hard to impress him.” 

Dave’s fingers massage, soothing, at his neck. He glances up, briefly, finds a measured expression regarding him with full attention. The bandages and blood on his face. The man he put under the water and dragged out, breathed life back into. He doesn’t find the judgment there that he expects. Not yet.

“I think, maybe,” he murmurs, finally, hiding behind his glasses, “it might have something to do with...” His mouth hangs open, and this pained noise comes out of him, because he’s always thought about this, never put it to words. “I don’t know what happened to-- to her. My mother. I tried to ask him, once, and the look on his face. He just shut down. He wouldn’t speak to me for days. I never asked him again.”

“Do you remember her at all?”

A tear slides down his cheek, drips off the point of his chin onto his hands. “Sometimes. I think that I might. I don’t even know what she looked like, he didn’t keep any pictures.” He closes his eyes. “But for some reason, when I try to think about her, I just see silver.”

Dave hums thoughtfully, but doesn’t press for more. Hal works up his nerve, tries to continue despite the feelings overflowing within him. It’s not fair how easy this is to tell Dave, all of his secrets pouring out of the gaping hole within himself.

“He never even told me what her _name_ was,” he spits, bitterly, “It was like I wasn’t even born. Like I just existed one day, because God decided he needed another Emmerich man to set the world on fire, to finish what they’d started before me.

“When I was about fifteen,” He takes a shuddering breath, forces himself to continue, “he came home with a new family. His wife, Julie, and her daughter from her first marriage.”

“Emma?” 

“E.E.,” Hal murmurs, lets the fondness slip into his voice, unfettered. “She was so shy, at first. I didn’t know what to do with her, I didn’t have any friends. I didn’t know how to care about her. But she was so sweet. Easy to love. It was like I finally mattered.”

He looks downward, and a sad little smile pulls at his lips. “For awhile, we were really like a family. My dad was around, and him and Julie were happy, I think. E.E. and I, we’d play house, I’d give her piggyback rides, I taught her how to swim in our pool. It was… nice.”

He brings a hand to his forehead, turns out of Dave’s touch, because the disgust at himself brewing under his skin is too much to bear. For his part, Dave sits back, palm coming up to rub at the bruising on his chest, the evidence of his brush with death, that dark water, all at Hal’s hands.

“After awhile, he got back into working. Julie… she got lonely.”

He dreads this. Dave, knowing his true, deceitful nature. The brittle fibre of his being, the cracks in his spine.

“She started talking to me a lot. Telling me how good I was with E.E. How happy she was to have a stepson like me. She was interested in what I was doing, smarter than she let on. She liked talking about ideas. So we spent a lot of time together, that way, the three of us. I tried to take care of them.”

He’s aware of the focus on him, now, Dave’s sharp, penetrating stare. He continues, gut churning.

“So… yeah. I thought I was doing what he would’ve wanted, at first. I listened to her, I let her cry on my shoulder, and sometimes, she’d get drunk. She told me things she said she never told him, about how she never felt like she was his priority, how she tried so hard to please him, and it just… I wanted her to talk to me like that. I wanted to feel what she was feeling. My father never treated me like an adult, like I didn’t understand anything, and she always did. 

“Most nights I’d come home from school, help E.E. with her homework. Julie would make dinner, and we’d all sit together. At the head of the table we’d leave an empty chair for him, like he was something we’d just imagined up together, a ghost, to keep us from acknowledging what was really happening.”

Dave’s face is as hard as iron, the tension in the air, static, as he comes to the only inevitable conclusion. “Did she…”

He weakly shrugs his shoulders. “It wasn’t like I did anything to stop it. One night, we were cleaning up after E.E. was asleep, Dad wouldn’t be home for hours, and we reached for the same cupboard and she was just... there. Right there. And she… she kissed me.”

The tears start up again before he can stop them, and he staggers through the rest of it. “We went upstairs.” His voice crawls out of him, “I... had sex with her. And I kept having sex with her. I didn’t want that feeling to stop.”

“Hal, she--”

“ _No_. I knew what I was doing. She was his wife.”

“She was the adult,” Dave snaps, and the aggression in his voice makes Hal recoil. “You were a fucking kid, she took advantage--”

“No, she didn’t!” The words come out of him louder than he anticipates, and he quickly dials his voice down into a hiss, “I wanted it. I wanted her to touch me, to love me, and I knew what it meant and I just _let_ it happen because I’m so-- I’m just--” 

His voice crumbles and he can’t choke down the sobs, can’t stop the flood of emotion. Dave swoops forward to pull him into his arms, and he pushes his hands against him, trying desperately to reject the comfort that he doesn’t deserve, even if those strong arms won’t let him go, Dave’s face crushed into his neck, hand cradling the back of his head. 

He cries for the emptiness inside of him, for the scorched earth of his past. For E.E.’s loneliness, for his father’s absence, for Julie, who hurt in a way that resonated with him. He cries for Dave, for his own inability to keep him out of harm’s way, his pathological need to run from the truth even if it means destroying everything he cares about. It hurts. It hurts so badly, and he can’t seem to stop sobbing, and he hates how good it feels to be in David’s embrace. He doesn’t deserve it. 

“It wasn’t your fault,” Dave growls into his skin.

“No-- I--”

“Hal,” he says, furiously, palms coming up to cup Hal’s jaw, cradling his head in his hands. “Look at me.”

His eyes wrench shut. “Dave--”

“ _Look at me._ ”

He opens his watery eyes, then. Meets Dave’s, clear and bright, and so full of anger. Something else stronger than that, desperate, and the intensity of his gaze makes him want to flinch. He doesn’t. He holds that look, even if he doesn’t understand what it means.

“It wasn’t your fault.” 

“But--”

“No,” Dave states, firmly, with utter conviction, “She abused you.”

He can’t stop the gasp that punches out of him. “She didn’t. It wasn’t like that. I… she didn’t want to hurt me. She didn’t _mean_ to hurt me. I could’ve stopped it.”

Dave’s thumb brushes his cheek, caressing, soothing, doesn’t let him turn away. “Hal. You were just a kid.”

“But it was my fault.” The tears start again. “He found out what was happening. He wasn’t an idiot. We weren’t careful.

“One day, he came home early. I was upstairs with her. He must’ve heard us.”

Hal takes a deep breath, and covers Dave’s fingers with his own, eases them away. He lets their joined hands rest on his legs, between them.

“My dad was in a wheelchair his entire life. So it was easy for him to just… go... into the water.”

Dave’s face creases in confusion. 

“He drowned himself in our pool. Because of me. Because of what he knew. And E.E., she said she didn’t remember what happened, but she must have been playing, because she fell in with him. And I couldn’t hear her screaming.”

It sounds like he’s underwater, this rushing noise in his ears, as he keeps talking. “We didn’t realize what was happening until it was too late. He was already gone. But E.E., the paramedics managed to save her. She was so angry I didn’t come for her.

“So I just left them. Like that. All alone, to deal with the fallout of my actions. I couldn’t tell E.E. the truth. I just ran away. Like a fucking coward.”

“Christ,” mutters Dave. His shifts, then, away from Hal, hands moving behind his back to support him upright. He exhales noisily, through clenched teeth, looking away. 

Hal’s chin tips downward. He goes inward again. Finally, Dave knows the worst part of him, the part he’s been running from for so long now. He expects disgust. He knows every perception of himself that Dave had ever held is probably irreparably changed, now.

“I just needed you to know why I didn’t say anything about her. Why I lied to you. I needed you to know the truth.” He swallows thickly. “And now you do.”

Neither of them speaks. The fan from the laptop whirrs softly in the background. Above them, a couple begin to fight in their apartment. Distant sirens.

“Anyway,” Hal mumbles, as he finally starts to pull the pieces back together. “I need to work. We-- we can’t stay here.”

He presses his face into his hands for one horrible second, then goes practically boneless, all of the tension just sluicing out of him. He just feels exhausted, and Dave’s still glaring off into the distance, face tight, vein pulsing at his temple.

He starts to move, starts to collect his thoughts. Slip the mask back on. It’s unbearable to sit in silence, not knowing what Dave is thinking about him after his confession. He’s only shaken out of it, stopped in his tracks, when Dave turns back to him. He’s surprised to find sadness there. Anger. Nothing like what he’d imagined.

“What happened to you wasn’t your fault. You need to know that.” Steadfast. Dave really believes that. The conviction in his voice makes Hal’s heart dip in his chest. “I know he was your father. And you respected him. I know what it’s like to build someone up in your head.

“But he was the coward, Hal.”

“What do you mean?”

“You were just a kid,” Dave says, softer, mouth pulling tight, “It was his job to protect you. To love you. And he punished you for his own failure.”

A pause, because all of a sudden he’s not sure what he’s going to say. He hadn’t expected this. “I don’t know.”

He thinks, brows knitting in confusion. This wayward thought piles up on top of everything, something he’d felt evil for even daring to think, once. But… it’s Dave. He feels so safe with him like this. 

“I guess. Sometimes... I wonder, if E.E., in the water. If maybe that wasn’t an accident.”

He lets that statement hang in the air between them with an air of finality.

Dave makes a sound, rubs at the bruising on his chest. Hal turns back to his laptop, because he needs to occupy himself, needs to distance himself from how vulnerable he feels. 

It’s weird. He’s not scared of it, just doesn’t know what to _do_ about this new feeling, about Dave knowing his deepest secret and just accepting it for what it is. He had bore the weight on his shoulders for years, now, and Dave had just listened. He hadn’t judged him. If anything, he made Hal start to question his own feelings. It’s scary.

His brain kicks up, wanting to spin itself out. And yet, for some reason, it doesn’t matter. He needs to make sure they’re safe. He needs to protect Dave, in his weakened state, and get them out of New York by nightfall.

Dave, who reaches past him with some effort, retrieves a mostly emptied pack of smokes from where they’d landed on the grimy carpet. He grunts as he has to put a little momentum into it, grimacing as he sits back. “You broke my fucking chest, Hal.”

“I suppose you’d rather have drowned?” He responds, and it’s sarcastic, a little too dark given the conversation that’s literally just transpired between them. It doesn’t hurt as much as he thought it would. “You should try and rest. Long night ahead of us. We can talk more later.”

He vaguely acknowledges his words, lights his smoke, lays back on the dingy mattress. His hand wanders over to Hal’s thigh, and he just sets it there, a constant presence, as Hal cobbles together a plan, a place. Somewhere to run to. No longer running away.

* * *

He feels rather than hears Dave wake up in the backseat, the electric shift in the air. He blinks, trying to fight off the exhaustion. He’s been at it nonstop since the tanker had gone down, making plans, monitoring the news, dealing with the fallout. It’s only after they’d gotten out of New York, switching cars twice, driving through alleys, Dave had finally accepted some painkillers, only daring to be anything less than completely lucid once they were safely out of the hot zone. 

“Hey,” says Hal, quickly looking over his shoulder, as Dave starts to sit up, “How are you feeling?”

“Better. Sleep helps.” 

“I’ll take a look at your bandages when we pull over.” He reaches to the passenger seat for a half-empty bottle of water, passes it back to Dave, who accepts it with a nod. “We’re in Wisconsin, by the way. I found us a place that looks pretty promising to lay low for awhile.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Old abandoned moonshine cabin I found by satellite, near this town called Gordon. We’ll probably have to get have to get the generator up and running, looks pretty rusty from what I could make of the pictures, but it’s remote, good perimeter, off the grid.” He smiles weakly, continuing, “And it’s close enough to the Canadian border if we need to make a break for it.”

“What’s happened since I’ve been out?” He brushes a hand through his hair, winces when he forgets about the healing gash at his temple. 

“Well, they’re pinning the entire thing on Philanthropy. Obviously the existence of RAY is being excluded from the information being released, apart from what I’ve been leaking.”

“Hm.”

“I think that was the entire point of luring us there,” Hal continues, because he’s had more than enough time alone in his head to come to this conclusion, “To incriminate us. To smoke us out. I mean, think about it, Dave. You, as Solid Snake, the nationally celebrated hero of Shadow Moses. A legend. I’m sure there’s some people pretty high up in the government that weren’t okay with that.”

Dave adjusts his injured leg, leans back against the car door. He crosses his arms, thinks for a moment. “Hm. Ocelot’s got RAY, we take the fall for it, the U.S. government gains back some of its credibility after the genome soldier clusterfuck.”

“Exactly,” says Hal, gesturing wildly. He slaps his hand back down on the wheel, nervously checks the rearview mirror, like the noise might’ve alerted every cop in the county. “We need to beat them at their own game. They’re trying to hush up the RAY photos, but at least one news site has picked them up. If we can--”

“I don’t think that’s going to work. Us versus the media, public opinion, and the entire fucking government. Odds are pretty skewed. There’s a manhunt going on, the entire country knows what I look like, and I’d say that leaves us pretty FUBAR’d.”

“What do you suggest?” Hal asks, feeling a little deflated. The situation is just so much bigger than them. They’ve always been running from the law, but having Snake’s face up on every news station and magazine in America is a completely new kind of problem.

Dave considers for a moment, brows furrowed, before this grim little smirk starts to tug at his lips. 

“Well,” he starts, turning to catch Hal’s eyes in the rearview mirror, “Can’t hunt down someone who’s already dead.”

It takes about half a second before it clicks.

“Oh my god. I have to call Mei Ling.”

His fingers slide behind his ear, and he’s already bursting to her frequency to set the plan in motion, to kill the legend for good. A burial at sea.

* * *

The cabin is partially boarded up, a little broken down, up the side of a mountain and far removed from the nearest stretch of road. It’s certainly seen better days, but they manage to break in through the hidden cellar door that Hal finds after a harried jaunt around back, bemoaning the fictional existence of Deadites, Dave rolling his eyes all the while.

It’s musty inside, the floors and furniture outfitted with a thick carpet of dust, and it smells vaguely of mildew. The bathroom is a little scary, he doesn’t want to touch the shower yet. But still, there’s a fireplace that looks like it won’t bring the walls down around them, the kitchen sink pulls up vaguely clear water from the underground well, and it’s far enough from civilization that they can afford to let their guard down, for now, and regroup.

“Mei Ling’s people are on the move,” comes Hal’s voice, where his head is blocked by the closet door, on the hunt for any tools left behind in the previously abandoned building. He steps back, peering to where Dave’s at the kitchen table, hunched over the remainder of their weaponry. “I’ll hear back from her when it’s finished.”

“We should probably switch to something other than the codec. Even via burst transmission.”

“I’ll go into the next town tomorrow and pick up a couple of burner phones and some supplies.” He relinquishes a half-decent flathead screwdriver, a crimp and some pliers from the depths of the closet. Something to start with at least. “We’re pretty screwed out here without wi-fi. I’ll need to rig up a tower so we can steal a signal.”

He gets to his feet, wanders past Dave into the kitchen, starts scouring through the kitchen drawers. “I mean, after I fix the generator.”

It’s a project. Something to focus his energy at. He feels so helpless like this, out in the middle of nowhere, Dave recuperating, with no internet to check up on whether or not the military or the police already know where they are. Machinery is something that comes easy to him, and he can put his hands on autopilot and just _work_ , while his brain focuses on the really important stuff. 

Stuff like going through the codec calls from the tanker with a fine tooth comb. He still has everything on the save frequency, after all. He lugs his laptop with him, outside, oblivious to Dave watching him wander off with a curious expression.

They work separately in silence, for a bit. Hal breezes in and out of the cabin multiple times, talks to himself, gesticulates wildly to himself with a ring spanner, nails his elbow against the door on the last trip out.

Dave only looks up when the dangling, naked lightbulb overhead surges for one brief second, then goes dim again. Turns back to the gun he’s ripped apart for maintenance.

Hal returns, soon after, a smudge of grease across his upper cheek. He bee-lines for the sink, attempts to wash his oil stained hands in just the water. “Well, the generator’s working now, but we’re out of gas to actually run it. So I guess we’re roughing it for the night.”

“If lack of exposure to the internet doesn’t kill you by the time it gets dark out,” Dave quips, just enough of an edge to the words that Hal can tell he’s frustrated by something. Probably the same things he is. Ocelot pulling the ground out from under them, again.

“I listened to the calls again,” he says, after a moment, “I remember, Ocelot said something to you, and it’s just weird, because I saw it come up when I was in the Pentagon’s network. I told you about it.” He turns off the tap with an elbow, dries his hands by waving them almost comically. “‘The Patriots’. You ever heard that term before?”

“Just from you, and now Ocelot.” He scowls, reaches for his cigarettes, neatly placed at the edge of the table, parallel to the barrel of the M9. “The Commandant said something back to him, like he knew what it was. ‘The La-li-lu-le-lo’. I haven’t heard of either term.”

Hal snorts at the nonsense coming out of his partner’s mouth, quickly schools his expression. “Speaking of the Commandant, what the hell was with all the pictures you sent me? Like four in a row, the exact same shot of his face.” 

Dave’s eyebrows raise towards his hairline, and he turns, attention suddenly focused entirely on lighting his smoke. “Nothing.”

“Dave.”

He grumbles. “Don’t worry about it.” He takes a drag, blows smoke out through his parted lips. “Don’t tell me you didn’t like the cute pinup girl pictures, though.”

His face goes a little red. He’d made backups, after all. “Ah. Thanks for those.”

“My pleasure.” A wolfish grin, for a hint of a second. “Anyway, this is just spitballing here, but maybe ‘La-li-lu-le-lo’ and ‘The Patriots’ are one in the same.”

He considers, rests his hip against the rough wood of the kitchen countertop. “What, you mean like one is a codeword for the other?”

“I was thinking about it. You watch anime, you know enough about Japanese to recognize the pattern of the dialect. It follows the progression-- ka, ki, ku, ke, ko, sa, shi, su, tse, so, and so on and so forth with every kana,” he says, in perfect pronunciation. Hal bites the inside of his lip. “In Japanese, there’s no letter L, natively. So essentially, the term ‘La-li-lu-le-lo’ is something that shouldn’t exist. I’m wondering if it’s a borrowed phrase.”

“So like… verbal censorship?” He frowns. “But why would you use a deliberately illogical term if you already knew what the actual name was? He clearly recognized what Ocelot was talking about when he said he was working for the Patriots.”

“What if he couldn’t? Think about it. The Marines are all wired with nanos, maybe they can swap out the word in transmission between the brain and the vocal cords.”

“You really think nanos could stop someone from saying a word outloud?” He crosses his arms, juts his chin out. “Hm, they did put out a new generation a few months ago. That new ID locking tech sure makes it harder to get our hands on any half-decent weapons.”

“Tell me about it.” Dave glowers at the skinny selection of guns laid out before him. “But it’s possible. During Shadow Moses, Naomi was able to manipulate my nanomachines to stop me from shooting where they stored the nukes. No matter how much I wanted to pull the trigger, I physically couldn’t. Similar process.” 

Hal considers. “So whatever the Patriots are, both Ocelot and the Commandant were familiar with the term, but the Commandant couldn’t or wouldn’t say the word aloud. A secret division? Hm. The Pentagon is aware of their existence, and Ocelot just stole them an American-made Metal Gear. But why would the U.S. steal their own nuclear weapon?” He scowls. “I really wish I had the internet right now.”

Dave shrugs, nonplussed. He stubs out his cigarette with his fingertips, lays it on the table. “Whatever they are, can’t be good news if Ocelot’s doing their dirty work.”

“I’ll need to do more research.” He pushes his glasses up on his face, looks over at Dave. “Hey, I should take a look at your injuries. The head wound seems like it’s healing pretty well.” He’d left the bandage off after the last change, and it’s mostly covered by his hair. Almost like nothing had happened.

“Hrm. I heal pretty fast.”

“Well, also nanomachines.”

“Also that.” He rises to his feet, favoring his good leg, but seems to have the bulk of his mobility back. Hal watches him pull the shirt off with only a little bit of difficulty, hair fluffed up as it comes over his head. “Where do you want me, doc?”

He chuckles. “Take off your pants and sit on the counter. Light’s better over by the window.” 

“Not even gonna offer to buy me dinner first?” 

He starts undoing the zip, and Hal tries very valiantly to keep his eyes on his face. It’s not like he’s never seen Dave naked, having basically lived on top of one another for the better part of almost two years, but there’s something electric running under the words.

“Well, all we have right now are rations, so.”

“Guess that makes me easy, then.” The pants come off, folded and placed on the table, and he pads over in bare feet and those tight boxer-briefs. He hops up to sit on the counter, hands curling around the edge. 

It’s weirdly easy to joke around like this, given what’s happened in the last few days, the undercurrent of disappointment from a failed operation. Beyond that, everything else that’s transpired between them; the drunken kisses, Hal’s subsequent rejection, the continued dancing around the magnetic pull between them. It’s like there’s a weight off his chest that he’d gotten so used to, for so many years. 

Dave isn’t treating him differently, maybe even opening up a little bit more. It’s just so natural between them. It instills this confidence in him that he never really had before, makes him bold.

Hal starts with the compression bandage around his chest, unwrapping it quickly to examine the bruising. It’s faded from blue-black to green and yellowish, and the knife wound across his pec is coming along nicely. He pulls at the healing skin around the wound with the pads of his fingertips, squinting in the low afternoon light as he leans in close for a better look. “Wow. You do heal fast. I can probably already take the stitches out. Jeez, Dave, you really are incredible.”

He reaches for the first aid kit, pulls out the scissors and alcohol wipes, gets to work. His face is inches from Dave’s chest as he focuses, can feel the heat rolling off of him. He knows Dave is watching his face, and well, now is as good a time as any. The first real time they’ve had to breathe.

“So,” he starts, trying to collect any wayward thoughts, as he snips a suture, tugs it through. “I’ve been meaning to thank you.”

“Thank me? For what?” He sounds genuinely confused, in that endearing way that makes Hal’s heart twinge. 

His shoulders peak in a loose shrug. “I don’t know. Ah. I guess, for listening.”

Dave scowls, like it was the last thing he’d expected to hear. “Do you… feel any better?” 

He considers for a moment, peers up at his partner’s face. “Actually, yeah. I think so.” He turns back down to the task at hand, makes another cut. “It’s weird. I don’t know. For such a long time it was like everything was stuck in my head, just… building up and I was always--”

“--reliving the memories, like it never stopped happening,” Dave finishes for him, and something swells in his chest, because he _gets it_. “I know. It’s okay to forgive yourself. To live.”

He sets the scissors down on the counter with a clatter, and suddenly finds himself unable to move, standing in front of Dave, looking down, anxiety ramping up in his chest. Forgive himself. It’s such a strange concept, so obvious, yet inconceivable to Hal. He’d always just assumed he’d take his dark secrets to the grave with him, bearing the flag of his martyrdom, but now, Dave’s just telling him that it’s okay. That he’s allowed to move on. It’s okay.

A hand slides over his bicep, around his shoulder to tug him forward, until he’s centered between Dave’s thighs, pulled tight into a hold. He lets his head droop against his partner’s neck, hands slack at his sides as Dave hugs him. He’s so warm, reassuring, breath hot against his neck. There’s still a part of him that wants to turn away, to fester in the guilt, but the part of him that _wants_ this overpowers it.

Slowly, methodically, his arms wrap around Dave’s body, returning the embrace.

They stay like that for awhile, and Dave makes a low noise in his throat, lets Hal sag against him as the remaining tension drains out of his body. 

Dave’s hands square back to his shoulders, and Hal slowly unlatches himself, looks up with a sniff. “Ah… sorry.”

“Never apologize for taking what you need. We’re a team, Hal.” He offers a crooked grin. 

Returning the smile with ease, Hal finds it to be startlingly genuine. “Right. Partners.” 

“Partners.” He jerks his chin down in a firm nod. ”Think you could finish patching me up? As much as I like sitting here without my pants on.”

“Oh. Uh. Yeah.” He returns to the first aid kit, goes through the motions while mostly lost in his head. Dave doesn’t seem to mind, lets Hal worry about him, clearly working something over on his own.

The moment blends into every other moment they’ve had, flows out into the room as they eventually throw themselves back into work. There’s too much data to unpack, and Dave spends a good amount of time going over the codec calls with a grim look, while Hal sketches out designs and specs for the modifications he wants to make to get their little command center up and running.

Night rolls in, and it’s cool enough that they get the fire going, rations heated up in an old cast iron skillet on the mantle. It’s not enough to make it something resembling edible for Hal, Dave increasingly unamused for the faces he’s pulling, and there’s this air of lightness despite the intense discussions, the heavy knowledge of what’s occurring outside the safety of their hiding place. They’ve draped sleeping bags over the wood-frame sofa, which smells vaguely of dead animals, and pulled it up close to the hearth.

“So you really think it was actually Liquid’s arm? I mean, it fits, I guess, his body was missing the same one,” Hal asks, eyebrows creasing, as he pilfers the paper package of off-brand M&M’s. The only good thing about the damn rations, and Dave usually weasels them all away. “And it was possessing Ocelot? Is that even possible?”

“I don’t know what to think. It sure as hell sounded like him.” He scowls. “Seemed to have some sort of reaction to me. Liquid… or his voice, or whatever, it only started when I came out of hiding.”

“It didn’t seem like Ocelot had control over it. He seemed pretty freaked out when Liquid took over.” 

“Possession by hand. I don’t think so.” 

Dave leans forward, elbows on his knees, and there’s this tension in him that makes Hal start to watch him carefully, anticipating. His voice comes sharp, punctuated. “We should be hunting him down. Getting answers. Why the hell are we sitting around here waiting for him to strike again?”

“Look,” says Hal, adjusting his glasses, “I know it’s tempting. I want to find him, too. But we’re way out-gunned, we have no idea where he is, and we’re international fugitives to everyone else. It’s not the right time.”

Dave grumbles a little at that, hangs his head between his shoulders. “You’re right.” His hands ball into fists. “I just feel fucking useless right now.”

Besides, it wasn’t like Hal had to stare down the psycho that had appropriated his clone brother’s arm for nefarious purposes. He’d gone over the records earlier a few times, every word Ocelot, or rather Liquid, had said. Drowning in time. 

His eyes land on Dave’s profile, the sharp line of his nose, his cheekbones, as he glowers down at the fire. He can’t even imagine what it must be like to live with the knowledge of being created in a lab purely to exist as a weapon, a stand-in for Big Boss. The constant awareness of the ticking hands of fate.

He just wants to shake that out of him. To pull him into his arms, untangle him from the strings of duty, if only for a moment.

“Hey,” he says, softly, getting up to his knees to scoot closer. Dave looks up at him with tired eyes, rubs a hand over the back of his neck as he sits upright. It’s been a long and harrowing couple of days. 

He settles himself against Dave’s shoulder, pulls his knees up to his chest. It’s somehow effortless, now, to just initiate that physical contact. It starts butterflies in his stomach, but he breathes easier, doesn’t feel like he’s doing something wrong. 

“We’ve got this,” he says, confidence swelling within him, “We’re a team, remember?” He smiles, feeling a little dopey, but Dave’s focusing on him with that intensity, really listening, taking it in. “I couldn’t do this without you. I mean, can you really picture _me_ bungee jumping off the Verrazano bridge? Yeesh.” 

Dave snorts. “You do have a point.”

He relaxes a little, slouching low, legs kicked out in front of him as he crosses his ankles. Hal shakes the almost empty package of candy at him, which he accepts. “We’ll figure it out.”

“I know. I believe you.”

They talk until the fire’s burned down to embers, pressed up against one another, discussing possibilities and unpeeling the bits of knowledge they’ve acquired. Eventually, Hal starts dipping off, the exhaustion wearing him down, and they don’t even have to talk about arrangements, Dave securing the doors and setting up failsafes, while Hal drags the sleeping bags into the single bedroom, even if he suspects the dingy old mattress might house an infestation of spiders.

He’s already half-asleep when he feels the bed shift behind him. Sleep comes easily with a warm body nearby.

If they wake up in the morning tangled together, it’s new, but nothing exactly surprising. Hal feels the weight of an arm across his chest, Dave pressed up against his back, and he yawns, closes his eyes and resolves to sleep for just a few more minutes. His shirt is twisted up under his torso, and it’s a bit uncomfortable with Dave’s bulky thigh pinning his leg, but it’s warm, he can’t complain, and his partner at least slept through the night, no dreams to wake him.

He hears the change of breathing, feels Dave’s forearm tighten around his chest and tug him closer, until they’re joined from chest to thigh. His hips roll just a little, and Hal’s aware of the hardness pushed against his ass, maybe arches into it a bit, it’s only natural. He could get used to this, really, hair tickling at the back of his neck when Dave exhales.

They stay like that for a little while, Hal halfway between waking and slumber, until the light beaming in from the window is too much to ignore. Dave moves before he does, palm sliding across his chest, squeezing his shoulder, before he rolls up to seated. 

“You ever gonna wake up, nerd?” he asks, fondly, and Hal vaguely murmurs into the bedding.

“Do I have to?”

Dave nudges his hip. “Work to do.”

“Right.” 

The daytime drives them apart. Hal configures a disguise, feeling ridiculous all the while, pulls his hair back into a short tail, in one of the oversized, moth-worn hunting jackets left in the closet. Dave actually barks out a laugh at him at the sight, but with sunglasses on, he doesn’t look like himself, and even though his face isn’t the one dashed all over the tabloids, keeping a low profile is best.

He’s gone for most of the day, trolling through thrift stores, buying cell phones, electronic parts, groceries, cigarettes and at least one case of beer. An entire stack of newspapers with headlines bearing his partner’s codename in bolded text for perusal. He makes a point to drive in a deliberately convoluted pattern on the way back, and it occurs to him as he looks over his shoulder upon hitting the dirt road, that this is actually his life. They’re fugitives. He’s carrying a concealed weapon. And they were spooning this morning.

Hal’s still in a daze as he parks the vehicle behind the haze of trees, notes the small changes around the exterior. There are some trees knocked in that hide the little cabin further out of sight, a clearing around the cellar doors if they need to make a quick escape; the beginnings of a secure perimeter. Dave’s obviously feeling better, becoming productive.

The next few days consist of work and not much else. Together and apart, they get the generator running, the hot water heater, a better fence, homemade sensors in place to protect them from any potential unwanted visitors. Dave scrubs down the shower until it looks like it won’t infest them with any particular type of fungus, helps Hal with all of the physical work of rewiring the antiquated cabin for high-speed internet, bitches about his ribs and leg in equal parts, though it’s mostly half-hearted.

The evenings equal cards, beers, reading through newspapers declaring the discovered corpse of Solid Snake, international eco-terrorist. The oil spill cover-up, the nationwide terror, a running bodycount. They often sit in mutual silence, at times, until one or both of them come up with another idea to run into the ground. The power brings the laptop back to life, at least, pressed against one another, watching Hal’s collection of slice of life anime until he thinks he hears Dave humming along with the _Azumanga_ eyecatch song, from time to time.

The nights find them sharing the single bed, and every morning they have to pull themselves out of the tangle of legs and arms. It’s at the point where Dave crawls in right after him, falls asleep pressed up against his back, like this is just what they’ve always been doing, and it’s easy, spurs them onward in their work, like two pistons surging forward with absolute accuracy, driving, determined.

And, so what, if one morning Hal wakes to Dave pressing a kiss to the nape of his neck, to which he responds with a soft, happy sound, stretching in the first few rays of dawn. It’s just another facet to their already staggeringly complicated lives, just another variable. 

Daytime, and Hal’s sacrificed a few different hapless electronics for the purpose of his wi-fi tower. He’s almost physically shaking from the lack of internet connection, desperate to do some more research, to find some answers.

He’s just about ready to set the tower up in the coverage of the trees when Dave drops down in the chair next to him. There’s a look on his face that says he’ll be requiring his full attention. 

He sets the screwdriver down. Dave’s looking at his hands, flicking a cigarette in a circle with his fingers, completely focused on something. 

“What’s up?” Hal asks, finger sliding up his nose to push up his glasses.

Dave doesn’t say anything, eyebrows lowering, before stopping the cigarette with a clasped hand. He drops it on the surface, leans back. Hal observes, waiting. 

“Fuck. Okay.” He pulls his chin to his chest, breathes out noisily. “I’m not really great at this.”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Look.” He crosses his arms, almost protectively, across his broad chest, and Hal leans closer. “I’ve always accepted that I’m going to go down fighting. It doesn’t bother me. Never wanted a quiet death anyway.”

Hal blinks at him. “Okay.”

Dave smirks at him, incredulous. ”Jesus, of course you’d just say ‘okay’.” He puts one hand to his forehead, smiles into his wrist. “Hal, I’m trying to tell you something important, here.”

“Ah, sorry.” He pulls his legs up onto the kitchen chair, crossing them under himself, and turns to fully face him, only inches separating them now. “I’m listening.” 

Taking a deeper breath, Dave starts again.

“When that tanker went down, I was pretty sure it was taking me with it. Killed a lot of Russians trying to fight my way off. But I wasn’t fast enough. Water caught up.”

It had had gone under so quickly. Hal had seen the submerging lights, gauzy in the distance, with his own eyes.

“Before, I was always fighting to stay alive. To survive until the next fight. Nothing else mattered.”

He reaches for the cigarette, picks up the end with the tip of his fingers, rolling it against the table. 

“But, that night… when the water was coming up over my head. Everything was going black. All I could think was that I didn’t want you to be alone. I didn’t want you to have to do this by yourself.” 

Hal draws in a sharp gasp of air. He watches the movement as Dave swallows, finally daring to look over at him. His guard is completely lowered, he seems unsure of himself. 

“When I came to, the first thing I saw was your face. You could’ve left me to die. Could’ve saved your own skin.” Hal tips forward in his chair until his bare foot touches the floor. He wants to be so much closer. “But you didn’t. You were just... looking at me. Like you really saw me.

“I wasn’t gonna push it after you said you didn’t want to.” His hand stops, finger extended against the length of the cigarette. “But as it would turn out, almost dying tends to change things.” 

His eyes narrow, and Hal tenses. Dave continues, “I don’t want you to run away from me. I don’t want to let this go.”

“This…” Hal trails off, transfixed with Dave’s eyes.

Dave licks his lips. He looks down, momentarily, then his gaze finds Hal’s face again, pins him with a heated stare. “I want you.”

“I…”

“I get it if you’re not ready. After everything. But--”

His hands reach forward to twist into the collar of Dave’s thin t-shirt, pulling him closer.

“ _Yes_.”

When their lips meet, it’s with decidedly less urgency than that first time, slow as Dave’s mouth parts against his. He closes his eyes, ignores his brain, follows the hammering of his heart as he turns his head, lets his tongue into his mouth, meets it with his own.

They’re both a little too aggressive, initially, too much tongue and teeth, and it surprises him a little when Dave backs off first, lets him lead. His hands slide up his neck, cradling his jaw, and Hal presses forward, sucks at his lower lip. A low sound leaves Dave, and he answers with a hum, deepening the kiss, Dave’s hand going to his waist, the other to his shoulder, his neck.

It’s like nothing exists beyond this. The taste of cigarettes on Dave’s breath, the warmth of his hand against his skin. The noises he’s making as Hal’s thumb strokes his jaw, as he thoroughly kisses him, exploring, understanding. A fragile human connection in the vast endlessness of the universe. Something so small and insignificant, but at the same time, it’s everything. This is everything they’re fighting for.

When they finally part, it’s difficult, punctuated with small kisses, and there’s a line of saliva that joins them until Dave sucks his lip into his mouth with a pleased sound. 

Hal doesn’t move his hands, their foreheads touching, and he sort of laughs to himself, because it’s not fair how easy this is. How could he run away from this for so long?

“Something funny?” asks Dave, voice rougher than usual. He nudges Hal’s head to the side, accessing the soft skin of his neck. His teeth drag down the line of Hal’s throat, press kisses at his pulse, his fingers tensing at his side.

“I was just thinking…” He smiles, hands sliding around Dave’s back, holding him as he works at his neck, back arching as he hits a sensitive spot. “Ah.”

Dave’s voice is muffled, “You think too much.” The wet, suction sound of his lips closing over skin, the pull of pleasure that starts from Hal’s toes, up his hips, his spine, his head tingling at the touch. “Tell me.”

“Just-- I already wasted so much time.” 

“Of course you’d be worrying about what could’ve been.” Teeth graze his skin, the barest hint of pressure, “What matters is what’s happening right now.”

“What, like you trying to give me hickies?”

He laughs, low and warm, into Hal’s skin, and finally sits back, hands never leaving him. “More than trying.” 

Hal’s hand slides to his neck self-consciously, feels the wetness left behind, his heated skin. Dave’s thumb strokes at his ribs, a warm and constant presence through his t-shirt. 

But the world won’t wait forever. Reality sets in, as his eyes catch the metal gleaming on the table, where his latest project is awaiting its use. He needs to get back online.

Dave follows his gaze, then squeezes his shoulder, his side, sitting back. “We’re almost outta sunlight. Should probably go put that up.”

“Right now?” he asks, suddenly feeling unsure of himself, like he’s ruined the moment. “But--”

“We have all night.” Dave swings out of the chair, extends a hand to help him up. “Kept you waiting this long. Few more hours won’t kill us.”

Hal’s brows furrow. “But I thought you would’ve--”

“Hal. Philanthropy first. My dick can handle it, I assure you.”

He goes positively scarlet, because oh, god, they’re definitely going to have sex tonight. It’s actually going to happen. The thing that’s existed so long in Hal’s mind that he can picture it just by closing his eyes. He’s instantly hard just hearing the words out of Dave’s mouth, and he definitely notices, an impish look on his face, as he tugs Hal flush against him.

Their hips meet, and Hal’s startled by the awareness of just how hard Dave is against him, hot and present, his hands sliding down to Hal’s ass to grind against him for one succulent moment. His breath catches in his throat, he doesn’t know what to do with his hands, but they move of their own volition, up Dave’s chest, massaging his shoulders, his neck. 

If they keep touching like this, all they’re going to do is wind up in the bedroom, but he can’t seem to control himself, and neither can Dave, because they’re just standing in the kitchen rubbing against each other, kissing again, unable to keep their hands off of one another. All that tension between them for so long, culminating in this. It’s too much.

Finally, Dave nips at his mouth, gives his ass a final squeeze. “Come on.”

“Mm, yeah.” Hal finally peels himself away, takes a deep breath to try to collect himself.

It’s exponentially more entertaining to put up the tower with this tension, this expectation of more to come, excitement thrumming underneath every action. It’s work, something that has to be done, something that a romantic relationship could by every means get in the way of. But doesn’t.

In the back of his head, Hal recognizes that this is maybe a last-ditch chance Dave is giving him to change his mind. Maybe establishing for him, reassuring him, that this won’t get in the way of their mission. Trying to assuage any guilt that wants to rear its head at the last possible moment. It’s okay to want this to happen.

It’s still so new, whatever this is, and he doesn’t want to let it go, not with it finally in reach. The urgency is still there, dormant, anticipating, and it makes the task at hand easier, with the understanding of what more there is to come.

The tower is a bit finicky, crafted out of home-made materials, but he’s mostly assured it’ll work as Dave takes it upon himself to scale halfway up the tallest tree. Seeing Dave’s physical strength in action is nothing new, but for some reason the shift of muscles in his arms, the ease at which he pulls himself upward, the display of flexibility as he twists around branches is made interesting for an entirely new reason. He wants to feel that power first-hand, wants to experience it with his own body, wants to tame it for himself.

“You’re sure this is gonna work?” Dave yells down at him, as he passes up the transmitter, hanging onto the loop of wire with his free hand. 

“Mostly!” 

And he is, mostly, talking about the tower. 

But this could work. This could make them stronger. Maybe that’s what scares him most.

Once the device is secured, it takes a little bit of testing, a little bit of them bickering and adjusting, until finally, _finally_ Hal can get a signal on his laptop. He goes through a series of proxies to latch onto an external ISP, and borderline cackles like a madman as he gets a secure connection, because this is the longest he’s gone without internet in his entire life. He finally has a window into the outside world, can get back on Ocelot’s trail, can get back into untangling the web the tanker had unveiled, answer the questions surging through his mind.

They sit close together, pouring over data, emails, news reports, discussing as new information comes to attention. They’re still talking, intense, when night falls, Dave’s eyes sharp and focused, Hal’s hands moving a mile a minute on the keyboard. 

Their world is burning beyond these four walls, and yet Hal finds himself feeling invincible with Dave’s hand on the back of his neck. He would walk into the flames for him, just for another taste of his mouth.

And then, he feels Dave slide away, like a ghost at his side. Hears him pass the bedroom door, leaving it open just an inch, and he pauses. 

An invitation. A last shot at changing his mind.

He moves the computer off of his lap. Steeling his nerves, he quietly pads, barefoot, to the bedroom.

The lights are off inside, Dave sitting upright in bed, cigarette between his fingers. He’s only visible by the moonlight pouring in through the window. His naked torso is sharp, tense, the shadow doing little to hide the anticipation in his muscles.

Hal hangs at the entryway, slides through the crack in the door, plants his back against the firm wood of the cabin wall. He watches for a moment, as Dave takes another drag.

“Planning on standing over there forever?” asks Dave, voice low and rough. The plain arousal he can hear there makes Hal’s heart kick up, and he draws in a slow inhale through his nose.

“No,” he answers, honestly. Still, he doesn’t move.

Dave kills the cigarette with his fingers, the last remnants of smoke clouding his gaze. He drops it on the end table, leans back on his hands. His gaze meets Hal’s in the darkness. 

“Come closer.”

It’s impossible to deny those words. Hal’s body moves ahead of him, his knee hitting the bed, his hands, crawling forward to meet the other man waiting for him, until finally, _finally_ they touch. Nowhere to run.

Dave sits up to meet his mouth, kissing him, wet and deep, hands at his waist as Hal straddles his legs. The sheet slips down just enough that he realizes Dave’s fully naked, the sharp jut of his hipbones, the dusky trail of hair leading downward. He groans softly, hands threading into his partner’s hair, pulling him closer.

He lets himself down, and it’s easy for Hal to lay over him, caging him with his hands on either side of his head. He doesn’t stop kissing him as he starts to struggle with his sweater, needing to feel skin on skin, Dave’s steady hands tugging it over his shoulders. It’s quickly banished somewhere far from the bed, Dave’s hands teasing at the hem of his shirt, stomach dipping in at that light touch.

His mouth tastes like ash, and his stubble is rough against Hal’s own. Their kisses turn sloppy, too much tongue and teeth, the heat building between them, and Hal wants to go so far down inside he could pull apart Dave’s heart, see it first-hand with his own eyes. He wants desperately to understand every facet of this man, down to the science, seeking every answer.

Dave’s hips buck up against his own, and he grinds down, still too much fabric between them. He sits back up to reach for his shirt, Dave following him upright abruptly, hands grabbing desperately at the fabric. Inches of skin are revealed, and Hal can’t even feel self-conscious, as Dave’s palms cover his ribs, his chest, and his hands are so hot it’s almost unbearable.

He’s not expecting it when he’s flipped onto his back, so easily overpowered. Dangerous. The ease at which Dave manipulates his body makes his cock twitch, the darkness of his eyes, looming over him in the shadows. He presses a last kiss to Hal’s mouth, his jaw, down his neck. A hand slides up cover the area his mouth can’t reach, cupping over his vulnerable throat for one thrilling second, a prelude to something more, before following his mouth to the sensitive skin of his chest. 

His thumb teases the nipple his mouth isn’t sealed around, sucking and teasing with his teeth. “Ah-- fuck.” Dave makes this noise in response, and Hal’s toes curl as he bites down firmer, fingers pinching the opposite. 

“Sensitive?” Dave teases, against his skin. He laughs, raspy, as Hal makes another sound, louder this time, before moving lower. Wet kisses down his sternum, stomach pulling inward as he reaches his navel, the trail of hair leading lower. 

Hal looks down, can make out the shape of Dave’s body in the dark, the rise of his broad shoulders. He’s up on his knees, back arched, ass high. Hal’s hands stroke over his hair, his neck, wanting to urge him lower. God, he wants to fuck him, but Dave seems eager to lead, the button of his jeans popping through the hole, the sound of a zipper lowering.

“Oh, fuck. What are you doing to me?” mumbles Hal, hand sliding over his face. The frame of his glasses press into his eyes, and he shifts again, because he wants to watch, as Dave spreads his pants open. He tugs them low enough until the bulge of his cock and balls spills over the top, still confined in his underwear. 

His face nuzzles at his lower stomach, mouthing at the line of his dick through the fabric. He peers up through his lashes to watch him, a wicked look quickly overcoming his face. Hal keens, low in his throat, hips pressing forward, because _God_ this isn’t fair. “Dave,” he says, with some urgency, producing a gratified sound from the other man. “Come on.”

“Mm. I want to suck you.”

The heat that strikes him is overwhelming, pulsing down his groin and legs. “Ah-- please.” 

He lifts his hips at Dave’s urging, the remainder of his clothing quickly sliding down and off. There’s a hot second of panic at being so exposed, but it recedes equally quickly as Dave’s teeth graze his hip, hand curling around the base of his cock, giving it a firm stroke. 

Dave’s mouthing at his balls, and Hal fists a hand in his hair, trying with some effort to steer him to his cock. He’s so desperate to have that mouth where he wants it, but Dave seems content to nose at his pubic hair, one hand over his thigh, other disappearing underneath his own body. Likely, to jerk himself off. Fuck, it makes him so hot all of a sudden, the idea of Dave getting off to sucking his dick, and he groans to himself, fingers curling and uncurling.

“You’re actually going to kill me,” Hal says, frustration steadily building in his chest. His lips are so wet and inviting, so close to his cock, if he could just--

Dave chuckles, a rasp in his throat, hand moving up and down Hal’s length. Finally, painstakingly, Dave comes up on his elbows, and closes his mouth over the tip, jaw working as he slowly takes him in. Hal sucks his bottom lip into his teeth, hips straining up to get further into that wet mouth, but Dave’s forearms pin him to the bed, limiting his movement.

It’s too much. He hasn’t been touched like this in years, with such deft hands, that mouth, wringing noises out of him that should be embarrassing. His back arcs up off the bed, Dave negotiating space between his legs with the breadth of his shoulders, Hal's feet flat on the mattress, knees framing his partner’s head. 

The hand at the base of his dick tenses, jacking harder, making him pant. His stomach is clenching, tension building, as his body flirts closer to the edge. Dave doesn’t stop, his mouth tight with suction, hand massaging his balls in time with the movement of his head, neck straining with the effort, shoulders taut. He looks so carnal with red, swollen lips, eyes closed, entirely focused at the task at hand. Hal feels his cock pulse, hears the responding hum of pleasure from Dave.

“Don’t stop.”

His tongue swirls at the slit of his cock, and he curls in on himself, his hands pulling tight at Dave’s hair. “Don’t fucking stop.” A thumb nudges under his balls, presses fleetingly at the skin there, teases lower still, the barest of pressure against his asshole, and it’s enough to send him over the edge, shattering, blood roaring in his ears. The broken noise that leaves him, like he doesn’t deserve it, clenching it down between his teeth, breathing hard through his nose.

With a soft moan of expectation, Dave catches it all, draws his release out of him with his lips and tongue, tight over the head of his length. He keeps Hal’s cock, still thick and heavy with blood, in his mouth until the shaking stops, Hal laughing despite himself, because oh God, he came so fast, and this is actually, really, his life.

The world is still settling around him when Dave slides his body over his, cock hot and leaking in the crease of Hal’s hip. He reaches down to pull Hal’s thigh open, rocking his hips flush against his body. Hal works an arm down between them, hand finding both of their dicks, grasping them together for something tight for Dave to fuck into. 

Dave’s lips find his, and Hal can taste himself on his tongue, sucking and biting at his mouth. His hips move faster, steadily rolling into his hands, everything he does so effortless and sinuous. The movement of his spine alone, the slow undulation, he just wants to grab his hips and hold that energy under him, push his hand between Dave’s shoulders and hold him down, make him feel nothing but the length of his cock, the touch of his hands. He wants it over him, that ass clenching with effort as Dave fucks into him, arms holding him down, hand crushing his vulnerable throat. 

He squeezes their dicks together, the images spurring him onward, and Dave makes a pleased noise into his mouth. He swallows it, devours it, his glasses shoved into his cheekbones, hand pumping hard at their cocks. He wants to feel Dave fall apart around him, above him, inside him, wants to watch the man let every last guard down. He wants to understand that brutality and cold ruthlessness with his own body, soften the sharp edges with a gentle touch.

Twisting his hand at the tip, his wrist tenses, moves, Dave’s forehead pressing hard down against his own, his breath coming in gasps. Yes, so close now. Hal surges up, seals his mouth with his own, hooks his leg over his hip to urge him to fuck into his hand, _yes_ , those noises he’s making into his mouth. The sheen of sweat over both of their bodies makes them slick, his hands sliding, tongue pushing deeper, hips moving faster.

“Yes, fuck-- _come on_ ,” he encourages, against Dave’s lips, the words swallowed off his tongue. “Come for me.” His wrist is burning with the effort when Dave’s hips finally stutter, until he thrusts hard, face sliding down to push into Hal’s neck, a punched out sound muffled against his skin. Hot fluid bursts over his hands, and he doesn’t stop moving, kisses the skin he can reach, the stubbled edge of his cheek, the soft expanse under his ear.

Dave breathes into his skin, for a moment, then kisses his way to his mouth, finds ear, jaw, nose on the way. Hal laughs, this breathless thing, their tongues twining lazily together for a time. Dave’s weight settles onto him, fully, Hal's thighs framing his hips, the body of his partner fitting so easily overtop of him, like a missing piece. 

He finally unearths his hand from the tight fit of their bodies, slides a finger into his mouth to taste. It’s salty, not unpleasant, different than his own flavor. Dave watches the slide of his fingers into his lips, eyes intense, and Hal flushes, lets his hands settle at Dave’s sides.

He suddenly feels a little on edge, not sure what to say, not especially experienced in post-coital rituals. Dave clearly notes his dismay, kisses his mouth, slides off to the side to procure his cigarettes. He doesn’t go far, rolling onto his back, propped up against the pillows, before crowding his arm around Hal’s shoulders to tug him flush against his side, head resting on his chest. Dave’s other hand shakes out a cigarette, slides it between his lips.

“Good?” he asks, voice a few octaves lower. He sounds a little vulnerable.

Hal is able to reply with a most intelligent, “Guh.” He clears his throat, turns his face into the heat of Dave’s chest, glasses pressed up against his orbital bone uncomfortably. “I think you sucked my brain out through my dick.”

“Sure did.”

He sniffs, adjusts himself to come up to one elbow. He reaches past Dave, over the edge of the bed, to retrieve his t-shirt. He cleans off his hands, passes it to Dave to wipe himself down, before losing it to the floor again. He notes the lighter on the end table, snatches that, too, gives his partner a playful look.

“Smoking after sex? Isn’t that a little cliche, Dave?” Hal flicks the lighter, nevertheless, Dave raising an eyebrow as he leans forward to ignite his smoke. He drops the lighter on the other side of the pillow, leans back into Dave’s arms, pressed up against his side, boneless. 

Dave takes a drag, pulls the cigarette from his lips. He holds the smoke, kisses Hal’s forehead, a move that makes his entire spine tingle in fresh interest. Oh, he could get used to that. Casual intimacy, a lover’s touch-- he’s always thought that Dave had a bit of a romantic in him, after all. The violence of a mercenary, the mind of a philosopher. Dangerous and beautiful.

“You say cliche. I say custom.” Dave leans back, arm tightening around Hal’s shoulders. 

Hal’s hands wander across Dave’s chest, find purchase there, fingers dancing over his nipple, the lines of his ribs. The bruising is all but gone, the knife wound a thin, red line. Incredible, like the rest of him. 

God, but he doesn’t deserve this. He’d spent so long building it up in his head, and it had been more than he even expected, more than sex, he hadn’t been anticipating the feelings working their way through the very center of him. He’d tried for so long to shut it down in himself, needing someone else, daring to open up.

Dave gently nudges him, shaking him out of his wayward thoughts. “You thinking again? And you call me cliche.”

He smiles against Dave’s skin. “Would that be a cliche or a personality quirk?” 

“Probably both, for you.” He taps the ash into a wayward water glass off to the side, slots it between his teeth again. “Just don’t want you to rationalize yourself into regretting this.”

“I…” Hal blinks rapidly, because Dave really does know him too well, knows his tendency to spin himself into self-doubt given the time alone with his thoughts to do so. “You’re right. Sorry.”

He makes a low noise, and Hal can feel the vibration in his chest, as Dave leans over to dash out the cigarette. His hand comes to cup his jaw, turns Hal to face him, and leans forward for a kiss. The taste of smoke is addictive only on Dave’s mouth, chasing his tongue with his own, losing himself in that feeling again. His brain occupies a reluctant backseat, heart taking the reigns again, eager to be let off its leash. 

“Don’t apologize,” Dave says, against his mouth. Hal plants his hand firmer on his partner’s chest, comes closer for another brush with his lips. Dave’s hand massages his shoulder, his body responding, again, to the careful touch. “I just wanna pull you out of your head, Hal. Don’t hide from me.” Breathless, against his mouth.

“I won’t.”

Everything is so new, so raw between them, and it should be terrifying, to carve himself open like this, the broken parts of him so visible, so vulnerable. Still, eyes closed, Dave kissing him senseless, it’s easy to be swept away. Forget the demon at the doorstep, the sirens in the distance, the damage they both bear. Take a tentative step away from loneliness. It’s worth it. More than anything else in this world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It only took.... 40k to get these idiots into bed together. Ah, I hope you all enjoy. Please review/kudos if you do. 
> 
> You can find me at highandholy.tumblr.com to yell.
> 
> Also, in the immortal words of Liquid Snake, IT'S NOT OVER YET. We aren't done here.

**Author's Note:**

> HOOOOO BOY. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed. The next part should be up soon. Please review or kudos if you liked, and if you want to talk to me, I'm at highandholy.tumblr.com.
> 
> Also, the only reason they watched _Star Wars_ was because I played MGS4 again and completely forgot Snake made a reference to the Death Star and... yeah, it just went from there. Ah, these two. I can't deal with it.


End file.
